THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

PROFESSOR 
GEORGE  R.  STEWART 


THE 


KEEPSAKE  OF  FRIENDSHIP: 


Christmas  and  New  Tear's  Annual 


EDITED   BY 

GK  S.  MUNROE. 


NEW   YORK: 
PUBLISHED   BY  LEAVITT  &  ALLEN. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  18S4,by 

PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON,  AND  COMPANY, 
la  the  Clerk'e  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Mosgachuwtte 


CONTENTS. 


THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS, t 

HEIRESS  AND  HER  WOOERS, .    .    MRS.  ABDY 11 

SUNSHINE, MARIA  NORRIS,     .        .    53 

BACHELOR  BIM, HATTIE, 57 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY,        FROM  THE  ITALIAN,   .    64 

ELINORE, .        JOHN  8.  ADAMS,  ...  107 

THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE,       ANONYMOUS,      ....  110 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  ANGELS,      JOHN  PATCH, 129 

THE  STOLEN  CHILD, ANONYMOUS,      ....  132 

FORGET-ME-NO'i, FROM  PLATEN, .    .    .       163 

WHAT  SHALL  I  DO  ? J.  S.  A., 166 

BRIDGET  PATHLOW, ANONYMOUS,      ....  168 

MATERNAL  DREAM, FROM  THE  GERMAN,      194 

THE  DREAMERS  OF  DOCKUM,        FROM  THE  GERMAN,    .  195 
LOVE'S  MEMORY. MBS.  GRAY,     .  805 


6  CONTENTS. 

SEEKING, DORA  GREENWELL,.    .207 

THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE,  .    .    .    .    J.  8.  A., 213 

ON  A  WITHERED  BOUQUET,   .    .    E.  S., 224 

MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  ) 

£  .    MARY  HO  WITT,  ....  225 
CHRISTMAS  EVE     .    .         J 

FLOWER  ANGELS,  ....  RUCKERT, 262 

QUEEN  ESTHER, ,    .  E.  P. 265 

SONNETS, MRS.  N.  CROSLAND,     .  269 

A  TALE  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME,   .  E.  M.  R.,  ....  271 

JOSEPHINE, MABY  E,  HEWITT,     .       981 


ADVERTISEMENT 


"  THE  KEEPSAKE  "  has  already  such  a  wide  circle  of  ac- 
quaintance as  to  render  a  formal  introduction  wholly  un- 
necessary. 

Its  constantly  increasing  sale,  from  year  to  year,  has  been  to 
the  publishers  a  gratifying  indorsement  of  the  literary  and 
mechanical  execution  of  the  work. 

Although  in  title  and  dress  the  same  as  heretofore,  —  yet,  in 
its  literary  and  illustrative  departments,  it  is  entirely  new,  and, 
it  is  believed,  will  be  found  even  more  attractive  than  any  one 
of  its  predecessors  in  the  series. 


THE  KEEPSAKE. 


THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS. 

GOD  might  have  made  the  earth  bring  forth 

Enough  for  great  and  small, 
The  Oak  tree  and  the  Cedar  tree, 

Without  a  flower  at  all. 

He  might  have  made  enough,  enough 

For  every  want  of  ours  : 
For  luxury,  medicine,  and  toil, 

And  yet  have  made  no  flowers. 

The  clouds  might  give  abundant  rain, 

The  nightly  dews  might  fall, 
And  the  herb  that  keepeth  the  life  in  man, 

Might  yet  have  drank  them  alL 


10  THE   USE    OF    FLOWERS. 

Then  wherefore,  wherefore  were  they  made 
And  dyed  with  rainbow  light, 

,/Ul  fashioned  with  supremest  grace, 
Upspringing  day  and  night ; 

Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low, 
And  on  the  mountains  high : 

And  in  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  no  man  passes  by  ? 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not, 
Then,  wherefore  had  they  birth? 

To  minister  delight  to  man  ; 
To  beautify  the  earth : 

To  comfort  man — to  whisper  hope 

Whene'er  his  fate  is  dim  : 
For  whoso  careth  for  the  flowers, 

Will  much  more  care  for  Him* 


THE   HEIRESS  AND   HER  WOOERS. 

BY  MBS.   ABDY. 

"As  the  diamond  excels  every  jewel  we  find, 
So  truth  is  the  one  peerless  gem  of  the  mind." 

A  NEW  tragedy  was  about  to  be  brought  forth  at 
the  Haymarket  Theatre.  Report  spoke  loudly  of  its 
merits,  and  report  touched  closely  on  the  name  of  its 
author.  Either  Talbot  or  Stratford  must  have  written 
it ;  those  regular  attendants  at  rehearsal,  who  seemed 
equally  interested  in  every  situation,  equally  at  home 
in  every  point,  throughout  the  piece.  Some  said  that 
it  was  a  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  concern,  in  which 
both  parties  were  equally  implicated;  and  this  conjec- 
ture did  not  appear  improbable,  for  the  young  men 
in  question  were  indeed  united  together  in  bonds  of 
more  than  ordinary  friendship.  They  had  been  school- 
fellows and  brother  collegians ;  each  was  in  the  en- 
joyment of  an  easy  independence;  and  their  tastes, 
pursuits,  and  ways  of  living  were  very  similar.  So 


12  THE    HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS. 

congenial,  indeed,  were  they  in  taste,  that  they  had 
both  fixed  their  preference  on  the  same  lady.  Ade- 
laide Lhiley  was  an  accomplished  and  pretty  heiress, 
who,  fortunately  for  them,  was  the  ward  of  Mr.  Gray- 
son,  an  eminent  solicitor,  with  whom  they  had  recently 
renewed  an  early  acquaintance.  Rivalry,  however, 
failed  of  its  usual  effect  in  their  case;  it  created  no 
dissension  between  them ;  indeed,  the  manner  of  Ade- 
laide was  very  far  removed  from  coquetry,  and  although 
it  was  evident  that  she  preferred  the  friends  to  the 
rest  of  her  wooers,  she  showed  to  neither  of  them 
evidence  of  any  feeling  beyond  those  of  friendship 
and  good  will. 

The  night  of  the  tragedy  arrived.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Grayson,  their  ward,  and  two  or  three  of  her  "woo- 
ers "  were  in  attendance  before  the  rising  of  the  cur- 
tain ;  they  were  just  as  ignorant  as  other  people 
touching  the  precise  identity  of  the  dramatist  about 
to  encounter  the  awful  fiat  of  the  public.  Talbot 
and  Stratford  were  sheltered  in  the  deep  recesses  of 
a  private  box ;  had  they  been  in  a  public  one,  no- 
body could  have  doubted  which  was  the  hero  of  the 
evening.  Talbot's  flushed  cheek,  eager  eye,  and  ner- 
vous restlessness  plainly  indicated  that  the  tragedy 
was  not  written  on  the  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  plan, 
but  that  it  owed  its  existence  entirely  to  himself. 


THE    HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS.  13 

The  curtain  rose ;  the  tragedy  was  admirably  per- 
formed, and  many  of  the  speeches  were  beautifully 
written ;  but  it  lacked  the  indescribable  charm  of 
stage  effect,  so  necessary  to  stage  success :  the  last 
act  was  heavy  and  uninteresting,  great  disapprobation 
was  expressed,  and  finally  another  piece  was  an- 
nounced for  the  succeeding  evening. 

Adelaide  was  much  concerned;  it  mattered  nothing 
to  her  whether  the  play  was  written  by  Talbot  or 
Stratford :  she  wished  well  to  each  of  them,  and  sym- 
pathized in  the  disappointment  of  the  author.  Talbot, 
who  had  anticipated  stepping  forward  to  the  front  of 
the  box,  and  gracefully  bowing  his  acknowledgments 
to  the  applauding  audience,  now  found  himself  under 
the  necessity  .of  making  an  abrupt  exit,  muttering  in 
vectives  on  their  stupidity ;  and  Stratford  repaired  to 
his  own  lodgings,  aware  that  Talbot,  in  the  present 
state  of  his  mind,  was  unfitted  for  the  society  even 
of  his  Favorite  friend.  The  next  morning,  Stratford 
had  half  finished  breakfast  when  Talbot  entered  the 
room.  Stratford  was  about  to  accost  him  with  a 
lively  remark,  that  "  he  hoped  the  severity  of  the 
audience  had  not  spoiled  his  night's  rest;"  but  a  mo 
mentary  glance  at  his  friend  told  him  that  such  a 
remark  would  be  cruelly  sarcastic :  it  was  quite  clear 
that  his  night's  rest  had  been  spoiled ;  it  was  quite 
2 


14  THE    HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS. 

clear  that  what  had  been  "  sport "  to  the  public  had 
been  death  to  the  dramatist ;  it  was  quite  clear  that 
the  "  Russian  Brothers,"  although  they  had  ceased  to 
exist  on  the  stage  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  were 
still  hovering  about,  like  shadowy  apparitions,  "  to 
plague  the  inventor" ! 

"  Read  these  papers,"  said  Talbot,  placing  four  or 
five  newspapers  in  the  hands  of  Stratford,  "  and  do 
not  wonder  that  I  look  and  feel  miserable  at  having 
thus  exposed  myself  to  the  derision  of  the  world." 

Stratford  hastily  finished  a  cup  of  coffee,  and 
pushed  away  a  just  broken  egg ;  it  seemed  quite  un- 
feeling to  think  of  eating  and  drinking  in  the  pres- 
ence of  so  much  wretchedness.  He  turned  to  the 
dramatic  article  of  one  newspaper  after  another,  ex- 
pecting to  find  his  friend  victimized,  slandered,  and 
laughed  to  scorn  ;  but  in  reality,  as  my  readers  may 
perhaps  be  prepared  to  hear,  the  critics  were  very 
fair,  reasonable  critics,  indeed ;  and  it  was  only  the 
sensitiveness  of  the  author  which  had  converted  them 
into  weapons  of  offence. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Stratford,  after  the  scrutiny  was 
concluded,  "  the  dramatic  critic  of  the  i  Times '  speaks 
very  kindly  of  you ;  does  not  he  say  that  there  is 
much  beauty  in  many  of  the  speeches,  only  that  the 
drama  is  unsuited  for  representation  ?  " 


THE   HEIEESS    AND    HER   WOOERS.  15 

"  Exactly  so,"  replied  Talbot,  dryly ;  "  the  only  de- 
fect he  finds  in  it  is,  that  it  is  perfectly  unsuited  for 
the  purpose  for  which  it  was  written." 

"  But,"  persisted  Stratford,  "  he  says  that  he  is  cer 
tain  you  would  succeed  better  in  a  second  attempt." 

"  As  I  shall,  most  assuredly,  never  make  a  second 
attempt,"  replied  Talbot,  "  his  opinion,  or  that  of  any 
one  else  on  the  subject,  is  of  very  little  importance 
to  me." 

"  Surely,  however,"  said  Stratford,  "  it  is  better  to 
receive  the  commendation  of  writers  of  judgment  and 
ability,  than  the  applause  of  the  one  shilling  gallery. 
Arbuscula  was  an  actress  on  the  Roman  stage,  who 
laughed  at  the  hisses  of  the  populace,  while  she  re- 
ceived the  applause  of  the  knights." 

Talbot  only  replied  to  this  anecdote  by  a  muttered 
exclamation  of  impatience. 

And  here  let  me  give  a  few  words  of  advice  to  my 
readers.  Whenever  you  condole  with  those  in  trouble, 
do  it  in  the  old-fashioned,  cut-and-dried  way;  it  is 
true  that  your  stojck  phrases  and  tedious  truisms  may 
cause  you  to  be  called  a  bore,  but  thousands  of  highly 
respectable  condoling  friends  have  been  called  bores 
before  you,  and  thousands  will  be  called  so  after  you. 
But  if  you  diverge  at  all  from  the  beaten  track,  and 
attempt  to  introduce  a  literary  allusion,  or  venture  on 


16  THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER   WOOERS. 

a  classical  illustration,  depend  upon  it  you  will  be 
cited  ever  afterwards  as  an  extremely  hard-hearted 
person,  intent  alone  on  displaying  your  own  wit  or 
wisdom,  instead  of  properly  entering  into  the  sorrows 
of  your  friend. 

"The  ' Morning  Chronicle,'"  resumed  Stratford, 
"  speaks  highly  of  the  scene  between  the  brothers  at 
the  end  of  the  second  act." 

"Yes,"  replied  Talbot,  "and  the  'Morning  Chron- 
icle* winds  up  its  critique  by  advising  me  never  to 
write  another  drama." 

"  Did  you  not  say  just  now  that  you  never  intended 
to  do  so  ? "  asked  Stratford. 

"How  I  wish,  Stratford,"  exclaimed  Talbot,  im- 
petuously, "that  I  could  make  you  enter  into  my 
feelings.  How  very  differently  you  would  think  and 
speak  if  you  were  the  author  of  a  condemned  tragedy ! " 

"  I  do  not  consider,"  said  Stratford,  "  that  if  such 
were  the  case,  I  should,  in  any  respect,  think  or  speak 
differently.  I  should  feel  far  more  pleasure  in  know- 
ing that  I  had  written  a  work  which  deserved  to  be 
successful,  than  mortification  at  the  want  of  good  taste 
in  a  mixed  and  misjudging  audience,  which  had  caused 
it  to  fail  of  success." 

Stratford,  having  been  unfortunate  in  his  previous 
attempts  at  consolation,  had  taken  some  pains  to 


THE    HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS.  17 

demise  a  prettily-turned  speech ;  but  he  little  thought 
how  completely  successful  it  would  prove ;  the  coun- 
tenance of  Talbot  actually  lighted  up  with  pleasure. 

"  Are  you  really  sincere  in  what  you  have  said  ? n 
he  replied.  "I  have  a  particular  reason  for  wishing 
to  know ;  do  not  reply  to  me  in  a  hurry ;  take  a  few 
minutes  for  consideration." 

Somewhat  surprised,  Stratford  began  the  course  of 
mental  examination  prescribed  by  his  friend ;  and  the 
result  of  it  was,  that  although  he  had  only  meant  to 
speak  civilly,  he  found  that  he  had  been  speaking 
truly ;  for  Stratford  had  a  great  admiration  for  liter- 
ary talents,  and  a  great  wish  to  possess  them ;  he  also 
knew  that  Adelaide  Linley  was  a  warm  admirer  of 
dramatic  poetry;  he  could  not  doubt  that  her  judg- 
ment would  lead  her  to  approve  of  the  "  Russian 
Brothers ; "  and,  in  regard  to  its  condemnation,  she, 
like  every  other  intelligent  person,  must  be  fully 
aware  that  the  plays  that  read  best  in  the  closet  are 
often  least  adapted  to  the  stage. 

"  I  have  considered  the  matter  again,"  said  Strat- 
ford, after  a  pause,  "  and  I  repeat  what  I  previously 
Baid.  I  should  be  glad  to  be  the  author  of  the 
Russian  Brothers/  even  although  it  has  been  con- 
demned. But  after  all,  Talbot,  how  useless  is  this 
conversation !  No  good  wishes  on  your  part,  or  aspiring 
2* 


18  THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER   WOOERS 

wishes  on  my  own,  can  make  me  the  author  of  a 
drama  to  which  I  never  contributed  an  idea  or  a 
line." 

"  Yet,"  said  Talbot,  "  I  do  not  see  why  the  business 
might  not  be  arranged  to  our  mutual  satisfaction. 
You  wish  to  be  known  as  the  author  of  this  play;  I, 
perhaps  foolishly  and  irritably,  repent  that  I  ever  wrote 
it ;  no  one  but  ourselves  is  aware  which  of  us  is  the 
author :  why  should  you  not  own  it  ?  I  will  most  joy- 
fully give  up  my  claim  to  you." 

Stratford  was  a  little  startled  at  this  proposition. 

"  But  should  the  deception  be  discovered,"  he  said, 
"people  will  allege  that,  like  the  jay,  I  have  been 
strutting  in  borrowed  plumes." 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Talbot ;  "  your  plumes  are  not 
borrowed,  but  are  willingly  bestowed  upon  you  by 
the  owner ;  besides,  how  should  any  discovery  ensue, 
except  from  our  own  disclosures  ?  You,  of  course, 
will  not  wish  to  disown  what  you  consider  it  a  credit 
to  gain ;  and  for  myself,  I  give  you  my  word,  that 
should  the  i  Russian  Brothers '  be  destined  to  attain 
high  celebrity  at  a  future  day,  I  shall  never  assert 
my  rights  of  paternity  —  they  are  the  children  of 
your  adoption ;  but  remember,  you  adopt  them  for 
life." 

"Willingly,"   replied    Stratford;    "and   now  let   rii 


THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER   WOOERS.  19 

pay  a  visit  at  Mr.  Grayson's  house.  Doubtless  the 
fair  Adelaide  will  be  impatient  to  pour  balm  into  the 
wounds  suffered  by  one  of  her  adorers ;  pity  is  some- 
times akin  to  love." 

"  It  is  more  frequently  akin  to  contempt,"  mur- 
mured Talbot,  in  too  low  a  voice  to  be  heard;  but 
nevertheless  the  friends  proceeded  on  their  way,  talk- 
ing much  less  cheerfully,  and  looking  much  less  con- 
tented, than  might  be  supposed,  when  it  is  considered 
that  they  had  recently  entered  into  a  compact  so  sat- 
isfactory to  both  of  them.  I  wish  I  could  say  that 
conscience  bore  any  share  in  their  disquietude,  and 
that  each  felt  grieved  and  humiliated  at  the  idea 
that  .he  was  violating  the  sacred  purity  of  truth ;  but 
such  was  not  the  case.  Either  Talbot  or  Stratford 
would  have  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  telling  a  false- 
hood of  malignity  or  dishonesty ;  but  the  polite  un- 
truths of  convenience  or  flattery  were  as  "  household 
words"  in  their  vocabulary.  A  dim  foreboding  of 
evil,  however,  now  seemed  to  overshadow  them.  Tal- 
bot had  something  of  the  same  sensation  which  a  man 
may  be  supposed  to  have,  who  has  cast  off  a  trouble- 
some child  in  a  fit  of  irritation.  His  tragedy  had 
been  a  source  of  great  disappointment  and  mortifica- 
tion to  him ;  but  still  it  was  his  own ;  it  had  derived 
existence  from  him ;  he  had  spent  many  tedious  dayj 


20  THE    HEIRESS    AND    HEK    WOOERS. 

and  nights  watching  over  it  before  he  could  bring  it 
to  perfection ;  he  was  not  quite  happy  in  the  idea 
that  he  had  forever  made  over  all  right  and  title  in 
it  to  another.  Stratford  also  was  somewhat  dispirited ; 
he  could  not  help  thinking  about  a  paper  in  the 
"  Spectator "  concerning  a  "  Mountain  of  Miseries/* 
where  Jupiter  allowed  every  one  to  lay  down  his  own 
misery,  and  take  up  that  of  another  person,  each  in- 
dividual in  the  end  being  bitterly  dissatisfied  with  the 
result  of  the  experiment.  Stratford  had  laid  down 
his  literary  insignificance,  and  taken  up  the  burden 
of  unsuccessful  authorship :  should  he  live  to  repent 
it?  This  in  the  course  of  a  little  time  will  appear. 
Adelaide  Linley  sat  in  the  drawing  room  of  her 
guardian,  eagerly  awaiting  a  visit  from  her  two  favor- 
ite admirers.  She  was  not  alone,  neither  was  one  of 
ner  "  wooers "  with  her.  Her  companion  was  a  quiet- 
looking  young  man,  whose  personal  appearance  had 
nothing  in  it  to  recommend  him  to  notice,  although  a 
physiognomist  would  have  been  struck  with  the  good 
expression  of  his  countenance.  His  name  was  Alton, 
and  he  was  the  confidential  clerk  of  her  guardians 
He  had  never  presumed  to  address  the  heiress,  save 
with  distant  respect ;  but  she  valued  him  for  the 
excellent  qualities  which  had  made  him  a  high  favor- 
ite with  Mr.  Gray  son,  and  always  treated  him  t*\i 


THE   HEIRESS   AND   HER   WOOERS.  21 

kindness  and  consideration.  On  the  present  occasion, 
however,  she  was  evidently  somewhat  out  of  humor, 
and  accepted  the  sheet  of  paper  from  him,  on  which 
he  had  been  transcribing  for  her  some  passages  from 
a  new  poem,  with  a  cold  expression  of  thanks.  Alton 
lingered  a  moment  at  the  door  of  the  room.  "  There 
is  peculiar  beauty,"  he  said,  "in  the  closing  lines  of 
the  last  passage." 

"  There  is,"  replied  the  heiress,  carelessly ;  "  but  I 
should  scarcely  have  thought,  Mr.  Alton,  that  you 
would  have  taken  much  interest  in  poetry :  why  did 
you  not  accompany  us,  last  night,  to  see  the  new 
tragedy,  although  so  repeatedly  pressed  to  do  so?" 

"  I  had  a  reason  for  declining  to  go,  Miss  Linley,:' 
said  Alton. 

"  Probably  you  disapprove  of  dramatic  representa- 
tions," said  Adelade ;  "  in  which  case,  I  approve  your 
consistency  and  conscientiousness  in  refusing  to  fre- 
quent them." 

Alton  would  have  liked  to  be  approved  by  Ade- 
laide ;  but  he  liked  to  speak  the  truth  still  better. 

"  That  was  not  my  reason,"  he  replied ;  "  I  do  not 
disapprove  of  the  drama,  nor  could  I  expect  any 
thing  that  was  not  perfectly  excellent  and  unexcep- 
tionable from  the  reputed  authors  of  the  tragedy  in 
question.  I  had  another  reason." 


22  THE   HEIRESS   AND   HER   WOOERS. 

"May  I  beg  to  know  it?"  said  Adelaide,  half  in 
jest  and  half  in  earnest. 

Alton's  cheek  became  flushed,  but  he  replied,  "  I 
am  not  in  the  habit  of  withholding  the  truth,  when 
expressly  asked  for  it.  I  never  go  to  public  amuse- 
ments, because  I  object  to  the  expense." 

Alton  could  scarcely  have  made  any  speech  that 
would  more  have  lowered  him  in  Adelaide's  estima- 
tion. The  young  can  make  allowance  for  "the  good 
old  gentlemanly  vice"  of  avarice,  in  those  who  have 
lived  so  many  years  in  the  world  that  gathering  gold 
appears  to  them  as  suitable  a  pastime  for  age  as  that 
of  gathering  flowers  for  childhood;  but  avarice  in 
youth,  like  a  lock  of  white  hair  in  the  midst  of  sunny 
curls,  seems  sadly  out  of  its  place.  Adelaide  knew 
that  Alton  received  a  liberal  stipend  from  her  guar- 
dian, and  that  he  had  also  inherited  some  property 
from  a  cousin ;  he  had  not  any  near  relations ;  he  was 
doubtless  hoarding  entirely  for  his  own  profit ;  he  was 
a  gold  worshipper  in  a  small  way,  accumulating  the 
precious  metal  by  petty  economies  in  London,  instead 
of  going  out  manfully  to  dig  it  up  by  lumps  in  Cali- 
fornia. She  therefore  merely  replied,  "You  are  very 
prudent,  Mr.  Alton,"  with  a  marked  and  meaning  in- 
tonation of  the  last  word,  which  converted  it  into  a 
severe  epigram,  and  took  up  a  book  with  an  air  of 


THE   HEIRESS   AND   HER   WOOERS.  23 

such  unmistakable  coldness,  that  the  discomfited  econ- 
omist was  glad  to  beat  a  retreat.  Adelaide's  solitude 
was  soon  more  agreeably  enlivened  by  the  arrival  of 
Talbot  and  Stratford.  Talbot  quickly  dispelled  all 
embarrassment  as  to  the  lubject  of  the  tragedy,  by 
•playfully  saying,  "  I  bring  with  me  an  ill-fated  author, 
who,  I  am  sure  you  will  agree  with  me,  deserved 
much  better  treatment  than  he  has  met  with." 

Hereupon,  Adelaide  offered  words  of  consolation, 
and  very  sweet,  kind,  and  winning  words  they  were ; 
indeed,  Stratford  deemed  them  quite  sufficient  to  com- 
pensate for  the  failure  of  a  tragedy ;  but,  then,  we 
must  remember  that  Stratford  was  not  really  the  au- 
thor of  the  "  Russian  Brothers ; "  his  wounds  were 
only  fictitious,  and  therefore  it  was  no  very  difficult 
task  to  heal  them.  Possibly,  Talbot  might  have  felt 
a  little  uneasy  at  Adelaide's  excess  of  kindness,  had 
he  been  present  during  the  whole  of  Stratford's  visit; 
but  Talbot  had  soon  made  his  escape  to  his  club ;  he 
had  several  friends  there,  who  suspected  him  of  hav- 
ing written  the  tragedy  of  the  preceding  night :  a  few 
hours  a£o  he  had  dreaded  the  idea  of  meeting  them ; 
but  now  he  encountered  them  with  fearless  openness, 
expressing  his  concern  for  the  failure  of  Stratford's 
tragedy,  and  remarking  that  "the  poor  fellow  was  so 
terribly  cut  up  about  it,  that  he  had  advised  him  to 


94  THE    HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS. 

keep  quiet  for  a  few  days,  and  let  the  affair  blew 
over." 

Talbot  and  Stratford  dined  together;  both  were  in 
good  spirits:  neither  of  them  had  yet  begun  to  feel 
any  of  the  evils  of  the  deceptive  course  they  were 
pursuing.  A  week  passed,  and  the  sky  was  no  longer 
so  fair  and  cloudless.  Adelaide's  pity  for  Stratford 
was  evidently  far  more  akin  to  love  than  contempt; 
she  was  an  admirer  of  genius,  and  was  never  wearied 
of  talking  about  the  tragedy,  which  had  really  made 
a  deep  impression  upon  her.  She  requested  Strat- 
ford to  let  her  have  the  rough  copy  of  it ;  the  request 
was  not  so  embarrassing  as  might  be  supposed,  for 
Stratford  had  been  obliged  to  ask  Talbot  to  give  it 
to  him,  that  he  might  be  able  to  answer  Adelaide's 
continual  questions  as  to  the  conduct  of  the  story  and 
development  of  the  characters :  the  handwriting  of 
the  friends  was  very  similar,  and  the  blotted,  inter- 
lined manuscript  revealed  no  secrets  as  to  its  especial 
inditer.  "  Remember,"  said  Adelaide,  as  she  playfully 
received  it,  "that  I  consider  this  as  a  gift,  not  as  a 
loan ;  it  will  probably  be  introduced  into  various 
circles." 

Talbot  was  present  at  the  tune,  and  felt  a  pang 
of  inexpressible  acuteness  at  the  idea  of  the  offspring 
of  his  own  brain  being  paraded  in  "various  circles" 


THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER   WOOERS.  25 

as  the  production  of  Stratford.  He  could  not  offer 
any  opposition  to  Adelaide's  intentions;  but  he  re- 
venged  himself  by  constant  taunting  allusions  to  the 
mortifications  of  an  unsuccessful  dramatist,  shunned  by 
the  manager,  scorned  by  the  performers,  and  even  a 
subject  of  sarcastic  pity  to  the  scene-shifters. 

These  speeches  hurt  and  offended  Stratford,  espe- 
cially as  they  were  always  made  in  the  presence  of 
Captain  Nesbitt,  another  of  the  "wooers"  of  the 
heiress,  who  shared  Talbot's  newly-born  jealousy  of 
Stratford,  and  consequently  was  delighted  both  to 
prompt  and  keep  up  any  line  of  conversation  likely 
to  humiliate  him  in  the  presence  of  his  lady  love.  A 
short  time  ago,  Talbot  and  Stratford  had  been  gener- 
ous and  amicable  rivals ;  but  they  had  ceased  to  walk 
together  in  peace  from  the  period  when  they  entered 
on  the  crooked  paths  of  dissimulation.  When  Ade- 
laide had  attentively  read  the  manuscript  tragedy,  she 
transcribed  it  in  a  fair  hand ;  she  had  already  fixed 
on  a  destination  for  it.  One  of  the  oldest  friends  of 
Adelaide's  late  father  was  a  fashionable  London  pub- 
lisher. Adelaide  had  kept  up  frequent  intercourse 
with  him,  and  waited  on  him  with  her  manuscript, 
secure  of  being  kindly  received,  even  if  he  did  not 
grant  her  request  Fortunately,  however,  for  her,  he 
Viad  been  present  at  the  representation  of  the  "  Russian 
3 


26  THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS. 

Brothers,"  and  had  been  extremely  struck  with  the 
beauty  of  the  dialogue,  and  he  readily  agreed  to  print 
it.  "When  the  proofs  were  ready,  Adelaide,  quite  sure 
that  she  should  be  giving  great  pleasure  to  Stratford, 
announced  to  him  what  she  had  done. 

Stratford  nervously  started,  and  gave  a  hurried,  ap- 
prehensive glance  at  Talbot. 

"It  will  be  certain  to  be  a  favorite  with  the  read- 
ing public,  will  it  not?"  said  Adelaide,  addressing 
Talbot. 

"  I  am  sure  it  will,"  answered  Talbot,  with  anima- 
tion, forgetting  for  the  moment  every  thing  but  that 
he  was  the  author  of  the  "  Russian  Brothers,"  and 
that  the  "  Russian  Brothers "  was  going  to  be  printed. 
"  How  well  the  scene  will  read  between  the  brothers 
at  the  end  of  the  second  act ! " 

"  It  will,  indeed,  returned  Adelaide,  with  an  ap- 
proving glance  at  Talbot,  whom  she  had  lately  sus- 
pected of  being  somewhat  envious  of  the  genius  of 
his  rival ;  "  really  we  must  try  and  inspire  our  friend 
with  a  little  more  confidence.  I  don't  think  he  is  at 
all  aware  of  his  own  talents." 

"  I  don't  think  he  is,  indeed,"  said  Talbot,  with  a 
distant  approach  to  a  sneer. 

"  But  my  favorite  passage,"  pursued  Adelaide,  "  is 
the  soliloquy  of  Orloff,  in  the  third  act.  Will  you 
repeat  it,  Mr.  Stratford?" 


THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS.  27 

Stratford  began  to  repeat  it  as  blunderingly  and 
monotonously  as  he  had  been  wont  to  repeat  "  My 
name  is  Norval,"  in  his  schoolboy  days ;  but  Talbot 
quickly  took  possession  of  it,  and  recited  it  with  feel- 
ing and  spirit. 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  said  Adelaide,  "  that  authors 
rarely  give  effect  to  their  own  writings  !  But  how 
beautiful  is  the  sentiment  of  that  speech  —  more 
beautiful,  I  think,  every  time  one  hears  it.  How 
did  you  feel,  Mr.  Stratford,  when  you  wrote  those 
lines?" 

Stratford  declared,  with  sincerity,  that  he  had  not 
the  slightest  recollection  how  he  felt ;  and  Adelaide 
asked  Talbot  to  repeat  another  speech,  and  praised 
his  memory  and  feeling,  in  return  for  which  he  praised 
her  good  taste.  Poor  Talbot !  he  was  somewhat  in 
the  position  of  the  hero  of  a  German  tale :  a  kind  of 
metempsychosis  seemed  to  have  taken  place  in  rela- 
tion to  himself  and  his  friend,  and  he  did  not  know 
whether  to  be  delighted  that  his  tragedy  should  be 
admired,  or  angry  that  it  should  be  admired  as  the 
composition  of  Stratford.  All  contradictory  feelings, 
however,  merged  into  unmistakable  resentment  and 
discontent  when  the  tragedy  was  published :  it  became 
decidedly  popular;  the  Reviews  accorded  wonderfully 
in  their  commendation  of  it,  and  the  first  edition  was 


28  THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER   WOOERS. 

speedily  sold  off.  Stratford's  name  was  not  prefixed 
to  it,  at  his  own  especial  request ;  he  did  not  want 
to  plunge  deeper  into  the  mazes  of  falsehood  than  he 
had  already  done.  But  Talbot  had  proclaimed  with 
such  unwearied  perseverance  that  Stratford  was  the 
author  of  the  condemned  tragedy,  that  his  name  on 
the  title  page  would  have  been  quite  an  unnecessary 
identification.  Poor  Talbot !  he  certainly  had  much 
to  try  his  patience  at  present.  Stratford  received 
abundance  of  invitations,  in  virtue  of  his  successful 
authorship  ;  he  went  to  many  parties  in  the  character 
of  a  lion,  where  he  was  treated  with  much  solemn 
reverence,  and  his  most  commonplace  remark  was 
evidently  treasured  as  the  quintessence  of  wit  and 
judgment.  These  festivities  Talbot  did  not  wish  to 
share.  But  frequently  Stratford  was  invited  to  lit- 
erary, real  literary  parties,  where  every  body  in  the 
room  was  celebrated  for  doing  something  better  than 
it  is  done  by  people  in  general ;  and  were  any  half 
dozen  guests  taken  at  random  from  the  assemblage, 
they  would  have  sufficed  to  stud  an  ordinary  party 
with  stars.  Here  Stratford  was  introduced  to  brilliant 
novelists,  exquisite  pbets,  profound  scholars,  and  men 
of  searching  science.  Here,  also,  he  met  with  literary 
women,  as  gentle  and  unassuming  as  they  were  gifted 
and  celebrated,  who  wore  their  laurels  with  as  much 


THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS.  29 

simplicity  as  if  they  had  been  wild  flowers  ;  and  who, 
so  far  from  possessing  any  of  the  old-fashioned  ped- 
antry which  has  aptly  been  defined  as  "  intellectual 
tight  lacing,"  were  ready  to  converse  on  the  most 
trite  and  every-day  subjects  —  casting,  however,  over 
every  subject  on  which  they  conversed,  the  pure  and 
cheering  sunshine  of  genius. 

All  these  new  acquaintance  of  Stratford's  were  ex- 
tremely kind  and  encouraging  in  their  manner  towards 
him,  inquiring  into  his  tastes  and  employments,  prais- 
ing him  for  that  which  he  had  already  done,  and 
encouraging  him  to  do  more  in  future.  Such  society 
and  such  conversation  would  have  realized  Talbot's 
earliest  aspirations,  and  he  could  not  willingly  cede 
those  privileges  to  a  man  who  had  never  written 
half  a  dozen  lines  to  deserve  them.  Yet  Talbot  was 
not  a  vain  nor  a  selfish  man :  had  Stratford  been 
really  gifted  by  nature  with  superior  abilities  to  his 
own,  he  would  have  been  quite  satisfied  that  he 
should  have  reaped  the  harvest  of  them.  But  that 
Stratford  should  be  distinguished .  at  once  by  the  notice 
of  the  gifted  ones  of  earth,  and  by  the  smiles  of 
Adelaide  Linley,  and  that  he  might  himself  have  been 
occupying  that  doubly  enviable  position,  had  he  only 
kept  in  the  simple  path  of  truth,  —  it  was  indeed  a 
trial  to  the  nerves  and  to  the  temper.  At  length; 


30  THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER   WOOERS. 

one  day,  when  the  rivals  were  alone,  the  smouldering 
fire  burst  forth. 

"  I  am  very  much  surprised,  Stratford,"  said  Talbot, 
flattering  himself  that  he  was  speaking  in  a  remark- 
ably cool,  self-possessed  tone,  when  in  reality  his  cheeks 
were  flushed  with  excitement,  had  his  voice  trembled 
with  irritation  —  "I  am  very  much  surprised  that  you 
can  continue  from  day  to  day  to  enjoy  literary  celeb- 
rity to  which  you  must  feel  that  you  have  not  the 
shadow  of  a  claim." 

Stratford  did  not  return  an  angry  answer  to  liis 
friend ;  he  was  on  the  winning  side,  and  successful 
people  can  always  afford  to  be  good  tempered.  "  I  do 
not  see,"  he  replied,  "  how  I  can  possibly  escape  all 
the  marks  of  kindness  and  distinction  that  are  shown 
to  me." 

"  Have  you  any  wish  to  escape  them  ?  "  asked  Tal- 
bot, sneeringly. 

"  Before  you  reproach  me,"  said  Stratford,  "  I  think 
you  should  remember  at  whose  suggestion  the  decep- 
tion was  first  entered  into." 

"  I  did  not  foresee  the  consequences,"  said  Talbct. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Stratford ;  "  the  consequences 
were  foreseen  by  both  of  us.  I  remarked  that  I  was 
unwilling  to  strut,  like  the  jay,  in  borrowed  plumes ; 
and  you  replied,  that  if  the  (  Russian  Brothers '  attained 


THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER   WOOERS.  31 

the  greatest  celebrity,  you  would  never  assert  your 
rights  of  paternity." 

"  You  certainly  possess  an  excellent  memory,"  said 
Talbot,  sarcastically,  "  whatever  other  mental  attributes 
you  may  be  deficient  in.  I  remember  the  promise  of 
secrecy  to  which  you  allude,  but  no  promise  was 
made  on  your  part, ;  therefore,  if  you  are  inclined  to 
descend  from  your  usurped  position,  and  give  it  up 
to  the  rightful  owner,  there  is  no  cause  why  you 
should  refrain  from  doing  so." 

"  And  can  you  really,"  asked  Stratford,  with  sur- 
prise, "  expect  that  I  should  expose  myself  to  the 
censure  and  ridicule  of  society  for  the  purpose  of 
reinstating  you  in  rights  which  you  voluntarily  made 
over  to  me  ?  " 

Talbot  paused  some  time  before  he  replied.  "  I 
feel,"  he  said,  "  that  I  have  expected  too  much.  I 
rescind  my  proposal.  I  will  only  require  you  to  make 
known  the  truth  under  a  strict  promise  of  secrecy  to 
one  individual." 

"  And  that  individual  is  Adelaide  Linley,  I  con- 
clude," said  Stratford. 

"  It  is,"  replied  Talbot ;  "  let  Adelaide  but  know  me 
as  I  really  am,  and  I  do  not  heed  —  at  least  I  will 
endeavor  not  to  heed  —  the  opinion  of  the  world ;  be- 
sides, Stratford,  recollect  that,  if  you  marry  Adelaide, 


32  THE    HEIRESS    AND    HER   WOOERS. 

she  must  certainly  find  out  the  deception  eventually; 
she  can  never  believe  that  the  fount  of  poetry  has  sud- 
denly dried  up  within  you ;  no  doubt,  indeed,  she  has 
already  begun  to  wonder  that  you  have  not  given  vent 
to  '  a  woful  sonnet  made  to  your  mistress's  eyebrow.'  " 
Stratford  returned  no  answer,  but  the  conversation 
left  a  deep  impression  on  his  mind ;  and  he  felt  that 
it  would  indeed  be  the  most  honest  and  upright  course 
that  he  could  pursue,  to  confess  the  whole  truth  to 
Adelaide,  and  then  silently  to  withdraw  himself  from 
the  literary  society  of  which  he  was  so  little  calcu- 
lated to  be  a  member.  Nor  was  this  resolution  of 
Stratford's  so  great  a  sacrifice  as  might  be  imagined ; 
he  had  for  some  time  felt  himself  very  little  at  ea?e 
among  his  brilliant  new  associates ;  he  was  aware 
that  he  was  only  "  cloth  of  frieze,"  although  circum- 
stances had  for  a  time  matched  him  with  "  cloth  of 
gold."  He  could  not  respond  to  the  literary  quota- 
tions and  allusions  constantly  made  in  his  presence. 
He  had  heard  some  wonder  expressed  that  he  had 
no  scraps  in  his  portfolio  to  show  confidentially  to  ad- 
miring friends ;  and  the  editor  of  a  leading  periodical 
had  kindly  suggested  to  him  a  subject  for  a  tale  in 
blank  verse,  which,  if  written  at  all  in  the  style  of 
the  tragedy,  should,  he  said,  receive  immediate  atten- 
tion from  him.  Then,  in  other  circles,  young  ladies 


THE   HEIRESS   AND   HER   WOOERS.  33 

had  requested  contributions  for  their  albums,  and  Ade- 
laide had  more  than  once  expressed  her  wish  to  have 
new  words  written  for  some  of  her  favorite  old  airs. 

Stratford,  the  morning  after  his  conversation  with 
Talbot,  sought  the  presence  of  Adelaide,  resolved  that, 
if  his  courage  did  not  fail  him,  he  would  make  a 
confession  of  his  misdeeds,  and  an  offer  of  his  hand 
and  heart  before  he  left  the  house.  He  found  Ade- 
laide, as  he  had  wished,  alone ;  she  was  reading  a 
letter  when  he  entered,  and  it  dropped  on  the  ground 
as  she  rose  to  receive  him ;  he  lifted  it  up,  and  rec- 
ognized the  hand  in  which  it  was  written ;  it  was 
that  of  Captain  Nesbitt,  and  the  letter  appeared  to  be 
of  some  length.  Stratford  felt  disposed  to  be  rather 
jealous  ;  Captain  Nesbitt  was  well  connected,  remark- 
ably handsome,  very  lively,  and  had,  like  Captain 
Absolute,  "  an  air  of  success  about  him  which  was 
mighty  provoking/' 

"  Do  not  let  me  interrupt  your  perusal  of  that  let- 
ter," he  said,  rather  coldly  and  stiffly. 

"  You  have  doubtless,"  said  Adelaide,  with  a  smile, 
"  seen  the  handwriting ;  you  do  not  prevent  me  from 
reading  the  letter  —  I  have  just  finished  it ;  and,  al- 
though your  visit  may  cause  my  answer  to  it  to  be 
delayed  a  little  while  longer,  the  delay  is  of  no  man- 
ner of  importance,  since  I  shall  only  write  a  few  lines 
of  no  very  agreeable  purport." 


34  THE    HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS. 

"  I  pity  the  poor  fellow  from  my  heart,"  exclaimed 
Stratford,  and  he  spoke  with  sincerity ;  he  could  af- 
ford to  pity  Captain  Nesbitt  when  he  knew  that 
Adelaide  was  about  to  reject  him. 

"  He  does  not  deserve  your  pity,"  said  Adelaide. 

"  Can  the  gentle  and  kind-hearted  Adelaide  express 
herself  so  harshly?"  asked  Stratford,  feeling  more 
and  more  generously  inclined  towards  his  rival,  when 
he  saw  how  much  he  was  disdained. 

"  I  must  explain  myself,"  said  Adelaide ;  "  for  I 
should  be  very  sorry  that  you  (and  the  delighted  lover 
actually  fancied  that  he  detected  a  slight  emphasis  on 
the  word  you)  should  believe  me  to  be  hard-hearted 
and  unkind.  Captain  Nesbitt  has  considerably  fallen 
in  my  estimation  during  the  last  few  days.  I  have 
received  abundant  proofs  that  he  does  not  always  love 
and  respect  the  truth." 

Stratford  began  to  feel  rather  nervous  ;  he  had  a 
particular  dislike  to  conversation  which  turned  on  the 
subject  of  love  and  respect  for  the  truth. 

"  Captain  Nesbitt,"  continued  Adelaide,  "  when  he 
first  became  acquainted  with  me,  informed  me  that, 
although  his  present  property  was  but  limited,  he  ex- 
pected to  succeed  to  the  estates  of  an  old  and  infirm 
uncle  residing  in  Wales.  I  was  lately  in  company 
with  a  family  who  happened  to  live  in  the  immediate 


THE   HEIRESS    AND    HEE   WOOERS.  35 

neighborhood  of  this  wealthy  old  uncle ;  he  has  indeed 
large  estates,  but  he  has  two  sons  in  excellent  health, 
to  inherit  them." 

Adelaide  here  paused,  expecting  to  hear  an  excla- 
mation of  indignant  surprise  from  Stratford;  but  it 
was  not  uttered.  Stratford  was  by  no  means  troubled 
with  an  over-development  of  conscientiousness,  and  it 
appeared  to  him  that  Captain  Nesbitt  had  committed 
a  very  venial  offence  in  keeping  two  Welsh  cousins 
in  the  background,  who  might  have  interfered  so  ma- 
terially with  his  interests. 

"  Doubtless,"  he  at  length  remarked,  "  this  subter- 
fuge on  Captain  Nesbitt's  part  was  owing  to  the  excess 
of  his  affection  for  you." 

"  I  doubt  it  very  much,"  said  Adelaide ;  "  affection 
is  always  prone  to  overrate  the  good  qualities  of  its 
object :  now  Captain  Nesbitt  must  have  greatly  under- 
rated mine,  if  he  could  deem  it  likely  that,  possessing 
as  I  do  an  ample  sufficiency  of  the  goods  of  fortune, 
it  could  make  any  difference  to  me  whether  the  lover 
of  my  choice  were  wealthy  or  otherwise." 

"  Could  you  not  in  any  case  deem  an  untruth  ex- 
cusable?" asked  Stratford. 

"  In  none,"  replied  Adelaide ;  "  but  there  are  cases 
in  which  I  deem  it  particularly  inexcusable :  the  false- 
hoods of  pride  or  vanity,  —  the  assumption  of  being 


36  THE    HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS. 

bettsr,  or  richer,  or  wiser  than  we  really  are,  —  thes« 
are,  in  my  opinion,  as  contemptible  as  they  are  xepre- 
hensible." 

"  Men  of  the  world,"  pursued  Stratford,  "  are  apt  to 
think  very  little  of  an  occasional  deviation  from  truth." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Adelaide,  "  if  I  entirely  differ 
from  you.  Should  one  man  of  the  world  tax  another 
with  the  violation  of  truth  in  homely,  downright  phrase, 
what  is  the  consequence?  The  insult  is  considered 
so  unbearable,  that  in  many  cases  the  offender  has 
even  been  called  on  to  expiate  his  words  with  his  life. 
Now,  if  a  departure  from  truth  be  so  mere  a  trifle, 
why  should  not  the  accusation  of  having  departed 
from  truth  be  also  considered  as  a  trifle  ? " 

Stratford  was  silent ;  his  shallow  sophistry  could 
not  contend  with  Adelaide's  straitforward  right-mind- 
edness, and  he  was  rejoiced  when  the  entrance  of 
visitors  put  an  end  to  the  conversation.  A  tete-a-tete 
with  Adelaide  had  on  that  morning  no  charms  for 
him ;  he  lacked  nerve  for  either  a  confession  or  a 
proposal !  Perhaps,  however,  it  would  have  been  bet- 
ter for  Stratford  if  he  could  have  summoned  courage 
to  have  outstaid  the  visitors,  and  revealed  every  thing 
to  Adelaide ;  for  discovery  was  impending  over  his 
head  from  a  quarter  where  he  could  not  possibly  expect 
it,  inasmuch  as  he  was  ignorant  of  the  very  existence 


THE   HEIRESS    AXD    HEB    WOOERS.  37 

of  the  person  about  to  give  the  information.  Every 
one  must  have  been  repeatedly  called  on  to  remark, 
that  in  society  there  seems  to  be  a  mysterious  agency 
perpetually  at  work,  bearing  news  from  one  quarter 
to  another  apparently  quite  unconnected  with  it.  In 
every  class  or  set  we  meet  with  some  person  who 
makes  us  cognizant  of  the  sayings  and  doings  of 
another  class  or  set,  from  which  we  have  been  hitherto 
removed  at  an  immeasurable  distance.  Often  the  in- 
formation thus  gained  is  desultory  and  uninteresting, 
and  it  passes  away  from  our  mind  almost  as  soon  as 
we  receive  it;  occasionally  it  strikes  upon  soiL.3  con- 
necting chord,  and  we  eagerly  listen,  and  respond  to  it. 
When  Adelaide  Linley  left  school,  she  had,  like 
most  young  girls,  a  favorite  friend,  with  whom  she 
kept  up  a  regular  correspondence,  at  the  rate  of  three 
sheets  of  rose-colored  note  paper  a  week.  Emma 
Penryn,  however,  lived  in  Cornwall ;  and  as  year  after 
fear  passed  by,  and  the  friends  never  met,  the  cor- 
respondence decidedly  slackened.  Still,  however,  it 
was  never  wholly  given  up,  and  Adelaide  had  written 
tc  her  friend  shortly  after  the  introduction  of  Talbot 
and  Stratford  to  her,  mentioning  their  names,  and 
speaking  of  them  as  likely  to  prove  pleasant  and  de- 
lirable  acquaintance.  The  day  after  Adelaide's  inter- 
view with  Stratford,  a  letter  arrived  for  her  from 
4 


00  THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS. 

Emma  Penryn.  She  apologized  for  her  long  silence, 
and  gave  an  excellent  reason  for  it;  .she  had  been 
receiving  the  addresses  of  a  very  desirable  admirer, 
who  had  at  length  proposed,  and  been  accepted ;  he 
was  a  Cornish  man,  and  his  property  lay  within  a 
few  miles  of  that  of  her  father.  After  entering  into 
numerous  details  regarding  the  carriage,  the  trousseau, 
and  the  marriage  settlement,  (young  ladies  in  the  nine- 
teenth century  are  very  apt  to  talk  and  write  about  the 
marriage  settlement,)  the  bride  elect  continued :  — 

"  I  am  quite  sure  you  will  hear  an  excellent  char- 
acter of  my  dear  Trebeck,  if  you  mention  his  name 
to  Mr.  Talbot ;  only  think  of  their  being  great  friends  : 
indeed,  Mr.  Talbot  was  quite  confidential  with  Tre- 
beck a  year  ago,  when  staying  with  him  in  the 
country  house  of  a  mutual  friend,  and  actually  was  so 
kind  as  to  read  to  him  the  beautiful  tragedy  of  the 

1  Russian    Brothers/   to   which   he   had  just   put    the 
finishing  stroke.     Mr.  Talbot  did  not  let  any  one  else 
know  a  word  about  it,  and  in  fact  extracted  a  prom- 
ise of  the  strictest  secrecy  from  Trebeck ;   the  reason 
was,   that  he   meant   to   produce   the   tragedy  on   the 
stage,  and  had  a  terrible  nervous  fear  of  failure  —  a 
fear  which  was  unfortunately  realized  by  the  event ; 
I  suppose  because  it  was  too  good  for  the  audience  to 
understand.     Trebeck  kept  the  secret  most  admirably, 


THE   HEIRESS   AND    HER   WOOERS.  39 

never  breathing  a  word  of  it  even  to  me,  till  the 
brilliant  success  of  the  published  play  of  course  look 
off  the  embargo  of  silence,  and  now  we  tell  it  to  every 
body ;  and  Trebeck,  I  assure  you,  is  not  a  little  proud 
of  the  confidence  reposed  in  him  by  his  literary 
friend." 

Adelaide  read  this  part  of  the  letter  with  incredu- 
lous surprise,  imagining  that  Emma  was  under  some 
misapprehension ;  but  when  she  came  to  reflect  on 
past  events,  she  could  not  but  see  that  it  was  very 
likely  to  be  true ;  she  had  several  times  been  much 
struck  with  the  inconsistency  of  Stratford's  conversa- 
tion and  his  reputed  literary  talents,  and  had  felt 
surprised  that  he  should  so  invariably  have  resisted 
all  persuasion,  even  from  herself,  to  give  any  further 
proof  of  his  poetical  abilities.  It  might  seem  aston- 
ishing that  Talbot  should  so  freely  have  acquiesced 
in  this  usurpation ;  but  Emma's  letter  threw  light  on 
the  subject,  by  alluding  to  Talbot's  nervous  horror 
of  failure,  and  Adelaide's  quick  apprehension  soon 
enabled  her  to  see  the  real  state  of  the  case,  and  to 
become  sorrowfully  convinced  that  Captain  Nesbitt 
was  not  the  only  one  of  her  "  wooers  "  who  had  shown 
himself  regardless  of  the  sacred  laws  of  truth. 

Reluctantly,  but  steadily,  did  the  young  heiress  pre- 
pare herself  to  act  as  she  considered  for  the  best 


40  THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER    TVOOERS. 

under  the  circumstances.  She  wrote  to  Talbot  and 
to  Stratford,  requesting  that  they  would  each  wait 
upon  her  at  the  same  time  on  the  following  day 
Neither  of  them  suspected  the  reason  of  this  sum- 
mons ;  Talbot  had  indeed  almost  forgotten  the  exist- 
ence of  the  silly,  good-natured  Trebeck :  he  had  read 
the  "  Russian  Brothers "  to  him,  because,  like  most 
writers,  he  felt  the  wish,  immediately  after  complet- 
ing a  work,  to  obtain  a  hearer  for  it ;  and  because, 
like  some  writers,  he  had  a  great  deal  of  vanity,  and 
had  been  flattered  by  the  deferential  admiration  of  a 
man  much  inferior  to  him,  and  from  whom  he  need 
not  fear  any  distasteful  criticism.  Talbot  knew  Tre- 
beck to  be  perfectly  honorable,  and  if  he  had  ever 
thought  of  him  at  all,  he  would  have  remembered  the 
promise  of  secrecy  he  had  exacted  from  him,  and 
would  have  felt  quite  at  ease.  It  never  entered  his 
mind  that  circumstances  might  happen  which  would 
induce  Trebeck  to  consider  himself  absolved  from  his 
promise,  and  that,  as  the  "  Russian  Brothers "  had 
been  published  without  a  name,  it  was  perfectly  natural 
and  probable  that  the  Cornish  squire  might  be  igno- 
rant that  the  London  world  of  letters  imputed  the 
authorship  of  it  to  Stratford,  and  not  to  Talbot.  The 
rivals  were  punctual  to  their  appointment,  anticipating 
nothing  more  important  than  that  they  should  be 


THE    HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS.  41 

invited  to  join  a  party  to  a  flower  show  or  the  opera 
house.  Adelaide  did  not  keep  them  in  suspense,  but 
said  that  she  wished  to  read  to  them  part  of  a  letter 
which  she  had  recently  received.  When  she  had  fin- 
ished, she  told  them  that  she  had  considered  it  right 
to  make  them  acquainted  with  this  statement,  and 
asked  if  they  had  any  thing  to  say  in  refutation  of 
it.  They  looked  confused,  and  were  silent.  Stratford 
was  the  first  to  speak.  "  Forgive  me  for  my  seeming 
assumption  of  talents  not  my  own,"  he  said ;  "  and 
remember  that  my  motive  was  to  save  a  friend  from 
the  mortification  of  acknowledging  a  defeat." 

"  I  cannot  conceive  that  such  was  your  only  mo- 
tive," replied  Adelaide  :  "  you  evidently  took  pride  and 
pleasure  in  your  new  character.  Did  you  attempt  to 
suspend  the  publication  of  the  drama  ?  Did  you 
shrink  from  the  distinctions  that  followed  it  ?  No ; 
you  courted  popularity,  and  enjoyed  it,  knowing  all 
the  time  that  you  had  done  nothing  to  merit  it,  and 
that  the  whole  of  the  applause  that  you  received  was 
in  reality  the  right  of  your  friend ! " 

Adelaide's  words  sounded  a  knell  to  the  hopes  of 
Stratford,  but  they  seemed  "  merry  as  a  marriage 
bell"  to  the  eager  ears  of  Talbot.  "Dearest  Ade- 
laide," he  said,  "  how  kindly,  how  gratifyingly  do  you 
speak  of  my  talents !  They  are  entirely  dedicated  to 
4* 


42  THE   HEIRESS   AND    HER   "WOOERS. 

you :  all  the  laurels  that  they  may  hereafter  gain  for 
me  shall  be  laid  at  your  feet ! " 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself  to  be  so  very  grateful, 
Mr.  Talbot,"  replied  Adelaide.  "You  will  be  little 
obliged  to  me  when  you  have  listened  to  all  that  I 
have  to  say  to  you.  r  Your  talents  are  undoubtedly 
great,  but  I  do  not  consider  that  vividness  of  imagina- 
tion and  elegance  of  composition  constitute  a  man  of 
really  fine  mind,  any  more  than  a  suit  of  regimentals 
and  an  acquaintance  with  military  tactics  constitute  a 
brave  soldier.  I  may  continue  the  parallel.  You  en- 
tered the  field  of  battle  by  your  own  choice,  knowing 
that  it  was  possible  you  might  meet  with  defeat. 
Your  first  defeat  came,  and  what  was  the  course  you 
purstied?  Did  you  resolve  to  try  again  with  added 
vigor  ?  No,  you  determined  to  conceal  that  you  had 
tried  at  all ;  you  deserted  the  noble  ranks  to  which 
you  belonged,  to  sink  into  the  mass  of  commonplace 
beings;  and  should  your  conduct  ever  become  gen- 
erally known,  rely  upon  it  that  all  literary  men  who 
sit  in  judgment  upon  you  will  unanimously  sentence 
you  to  be  cashiered  for  cowardice." 

Stratford  breathed  a  little  more  freely  during  this 
speech :  it  -was  a  great  relief  to  his  feelings  to  hear 
his  friend  so  severely  reproved. 

"  I  will   not,"   pursued  Adelaide,   "  dwell   upon   the 


THE   HEIRESS   AND    HER   WOOERS.  48 

offence  that  you  have  mutually  committed  in  depart* 
ing  from  the  straight,  clear,  and  beautiful  path  of 
truth ;  you  well  know  my  opinion  on  the  subject.  1 
could  never  feel  happy  in  a  near  connection,  or  even 
in  an  intimate  friendship,  with  any  one  who  did  not 
know  and  revere  truth  as  I  have  always  done.  I 
shall,  probably,  occasionally  meet  again  with  both  of 
you ;  but  we  must  meet  hereafter  only  on  the  footing 
of  common  acquaintance." 

The  disconcerted  "  wooers,"  now  no  longer  rivals, 
took  a  speedy  departure  :  they  exchanged  a  few  sen- 
tences on  their  way,  in  which  there  was  much  more 
of  recrimination  than  of  condolence,  and  then  coldly 
separated.  Their  friendship  had  long  been  at  an 
end,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  their  recent  mortifica- 
tions, each  felt  consoled  at  the  thought  that  he  was 
not  compelled  to  cede  Adelaide  to  the  other. 

It  was  easy  for  Adelaide  to  avoid  future  intimacy 
with  her  two  rejected  lovers,  without  causing  any  re- 
mark among  her  circle  of  acquaintance. 

It  was  now  nearly  the  end  of  June.  Mr.  Grayson 
was  quite  a  man  of  the  old  school :  he  did  not  stay 
in  London  till  the  middle  of  August,  and  then  repair 
to  Kissengen  or  Interlachen.  He  had  a  pretty  coun- 
try house  a  few  miles  from  London,  and  always 
removed  to  it  at  midsummer.  Mrs.  Grayson,  who 


44  THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS. 

enjoyed  nothing  so  much  as  her  flower  garden,  was 
delighted  to  escape  from  the  brown,  dusty  trees  of  a 
London  square ;  and  Adelaide,  although  she  liked 
public  amusements,  liked  them  as  "  soberly "  as  Lady 
Grace  in  the  "  Provoked  Husband,"  and  always  pro- 
fessed herself  ready  to  rusticate  as  soon  as  the 
roses  were  in  bloom.  Three  days  after  her  interview 
with  Talbot  and  Stratford,  she  removed  from  the 
bustle  of  London  to  a  region  of  flowers,  green  trees, 
and  singing  birds.  The  former  friends  —  now,  alas  ! 
friends  no  longer  —  travelled  abroad.  They  had  each 
studiously  contrived  to  depart  on  a  different  day,  and 
to  visit  a  different  point  of  the  continent;  but  they 
happened  accidentally  to  meet  on  a  mountain  in  Swit- 
zerland. They  passed  each  other  merely  with  the 
remarks  that  "  the  scenery  was  very  grand,"  and  that 
"the  panorama  of  the  Lake  of  Thun,  at  the  Colos- 
seum, had  given  one  a  capital  idea  of  it." 

Stratford  returned  to  London  in  January :  Captain 
Nesbitt  was  the  first  person  of  his  acquaintance  whom 
he  encountered.  Now  Captain  Nesbitt  possessed  an  in- 
fallible characteristic  of  a  narrow-minded,  mean-spirited 
man  :  he  never  forgave  a  woman  who  had  refused  him, 
and  never  omitted  an  opportunity  of  speaking  ill  of 
her.  After  having  anathematized  Adelaide  and  her 
coquetries  for  some  time,  he  proceeded :  "  Her  marriage, 


THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER   WOOERS.  45 

however,  will  shortly  take  place,  and  it  is,  I  think, 
a  fitting  conclusion  to  her  airs  and  graces.  Per- 
haps, as  you  have  only  just  arrived  in  England,  you 
are  not  aware  that  she  is  engaged  to  her  guardian's 
clerk." 

"  To  Alton  !  "  exclaimed  Stratford —  "  to  that  quiet, 
dull  young  man !  Impossible !  She  used  to  ridicule 
his  unsocial  habits,  and  also  was  very  severe  on  his 
propensity  for  hoarding  money." 

"  However  that  might  be,"  replied  Captain  Nesbitt, 
"he  has  proved  himself  not  too  dull  to  devise  and 
succeed  in  an  admirable  matrimonial  speculation ;  and 
as  for  his  system  of  hoarding,  perhaps  the  fair  Ade- 
laide, although  she  objected  to  it  in  an  indifferent 
person,  may  not  disapprove  of  it  in  a  husband.  Heir- 
esses are  always  terribly  afraid  of  marrying  men  who 
are  likely  to  dissipate  their  money." 

"  When  is  the  marriage  to  take  place  ? "  asked 
Stratford,  with  affected  carelessness. 

"  I  believe  in  a  few  weeks,"  said  Captain  Nesbitt ; 
"  that  is,  if  nothing  should  happen  to  prevent  it.  I 
think  I  could  set  it  aside  at  once,  if  I  took  interest 
enough  in  Adelaide  to  make  it  worth  my  while  to  do 
so.  I  could  communicate  to  her  something  respect- 
ing Alton  which  would  decidedly  lower  him  in  he* 
opinion." 


46  THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER   WOOERS. 

•*  Indeed  !  "  exclaimed  Stratford,  eagerly.  "  Haa 
Alton,  then,  been  guilty  of  any  deviation  from  the 
truth  ?  " 

Poor  Stratford!  « He  that  is  giddy  thinks  the 
world  turns  round ; "  and  he  had  no  idea  that  a  lover 
could  offend  in  any  other  way  than  by  deviating  from 
the  truth. 

"I  do  not  know  that  Alton  has  told  any  untruth," 
said  Captain  Nesbitt ;  "  but  I  have  reason  to  think 
that  he  has  kept  back  the  truth." 

"That  may  do  quite  as  well,"  thought  Stratford, 
"  when  one  has  to  deal  with  so  scrupulous  a  person 
as  Adelaide ; "  and  he  requested  Captain  Nesbitt  to 
explain  himself. 

"Alton's  father,"  said  Captain  Nesbitt,  "did  not 
resemble  the  father  in  an  old  song  of  O'Keefe's, — 

'"WTio,  dying,  bequeathed  to  his  son  a  good  name.' 

He  was,  like  his  son,  a  confidential  clerk  —  not,  how- 
ever, to  a  solicitor,  but  to  a  Liverpool  merchant.  He 
repaid  the  confidence  of  his  employer  by  embezzling 
sundry  sums  of  money,  which  he  hazarded  at  the 
gaming  table.  At  length  the  frequency  of  his  losses 
occasioned  him  to  commit  a  more  daring  act  than  a 
breach  of  trust :  he  forged  the  name  of  the  merchant  to 
a  banking-house  check :  discovery  ensued,  and  he  only 


THE   HEIRESS   AND    HER    WOOEKS.  4T 

escaped  the  punishment  of  the  law  by  committing 
suicide.  This  event  happened  five  years  ago,  and  is 
fresh  in  the  remembrance  of  many  persons  in  Liver- 
pool." 

"  But  do  you  not  think  it  likely  that  Alton  may  have 
revealed  these  facts  to  Adelaide  ?  "  asked  Stratford. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  in  the  least  likely  that  he  should 
have  proved  himself  such  a  blockhead ! "  replied  Cap- 
tain Nesbitt.  "  Adelaide  would  never  marry  the  son 
of  a  man  who  only  escaped  hanging  by  suicide." 

"  They  do  not  hang  for  forgery  in  these'  days," 
said  Stratford. 

"  So  much  the  worse,"  said  Captain  Nesbitt.  "  It 
is  a  crime  that  cannot  be  too  severely  punished.  I 
remember  hearing  that  many  years  ago  a  man  was 
hanged  for  forging  the  ace  of  spades :  I  wish  those 
good  old  times  would  come  back  again." 

Stratford  was  silent ;  not  all  his  pique,  nor  all  his 
jealousy,  could  induce  him  to  think  that  it  would  be 
desirable  for  the  times  to  come  back  again,  when  a 
man  was  hanged  for  forging  the  ace  of  spades. 

The  next  day  Stratford  called  at  Mr.  Grayson's, 
and  found  Adelaide  alone  in  the  drawing  room.  She 
looked  a  little  surprised  at  seeing  him,  but  received 
him  as  she  would  have  done  a  common  acquaintance. 
Stratford  congratulated  her  on  her  future  prospects, 


48  THE    HEIRE&S    AKD    HER    WOOERS. 

and  uttered  some  forced  commendations  on  the  excel* 
lence  of  Alton's  character.  "  He  affords  a  convincing 
proof,"  he  said,  with  a  little  trepidation,  "  that  the  son 
of  an  unworthy  father  need  not  necessarily  tread  in 
his  steps." 

"  There  are  so  many  similar  instances  of  that  fact," 
said  Adelaide,  "that  I  think  there  is  nothing  aston- 
ishing in  them.  The  good  or  bad  qualities  of  a  father 
are  not,  like  landed  estates,  entailed  upon  his  son." 

"Then  you  do  know,"  said  Stratford,  "that  Alton's 
father  was  an  unworthy  man  ? " 

Adelaide  looked  at  him  with  grave,  earnest  surprise. 
"  You  have  chosen  a  strange  subject  of  conversation," 
she  said ;  "  but  I  have  no  objection  to  satisfy  your 
curiosity.  I  heard  of  the  circumstance  to  which  you 
allude  from  Alton  himself." 

"I  conclude,"  said  Stratford,  "that  Mr.  Grayson 
insisted  on  his  being  candid  with  you,  previous  to 
your  engagement  being  concluded?" 

"  You  are  quite  in  the  wrong,"  returned  Adelaide. 
"  Mr.  Grayson  is  much  attached  to  Alton,  (whom  he 
is  on  the  point  of  taking  into  partnership,)  and  was 
very  desirous  that  he  should  propose  to  me.  He  en- 
joined him  to  keep  secret  the  melancholy  circum- 
stances connected  with  his  father,  as  they  could  only 
tend  to  give  me  uneasiness ;  and  it  was  quite  certain 


THE    HEIRESS    AND    HER    WOOERS.  49 

that  no  one  else  would  be  so  deficient  in  kind  feeling 
as  to  mention  them  to  me."  Stratford  feltf  rather 
embarrassed  and  uncomfortable  as  Adelaide  uttered 
these  words.  "  Alton's  strict  and  honorable  love  of 
truth,  however,"  pursued  Adelaide,  "  led  him  to  dis- 
regard this  counsel.  Some  weeks  before  he  proposed 
to  me,  he  made  known  to  me  every  particular  of  his 
father's  transgression ;  and  I  assured  him,  in  reply, 
that  I  did  not  consider  him  in  the  smallest  degree 
lowered  in  excellence  by  having  become  good,  con- 
scientious, and  truthful,  without  the  aid  of  parental 
precept  or  example." 

Stratford  was  determined  to  discharge  a  parting 
arrow  at  the  provoking  heiress.  "  You  have  shown 
yourself  extremely  liberal  in  your  opinions,"  he  said 
"  and  you  have  the  very  comforting  reflection  that, 
from  Mr.  Alton's  known  and  remarkable  habits  of 
frugality,  he  is  never  likely  to  fall  into  the  same 
snares  that  proved  fatal  to  his  father,  but  will  dis- 
tinguish himself  rather  by  saving  money  than  by 
squandering  it." 

"As    you   appear,"    said   Adelaide,   "to   speak   in 

rather  an  ironical  tone  concerning  Alton's  economy,  I 

think  it  due  to  him  to  enter  into  a  short  explanation 

of  his   motives.     When   Alton   first   paid   me   thosa 

5 


.50  THE   HEIRESS   AND    HER   WOOERS. 

marked  attentions  which  I  knew  must  lead  to  a 
proposal,  I  sometimes  rallied  him  on  his  strict  fru- 
gality, and  sometimes  gently  reproved  him  for  it :  he 
was  not  only  sparing  to  himself,  but  I  felt  grieved  to 
remark  that,  although  ever  willing  to  devote  time 
and  thought  to  the  poor,  he  rarely  assisted  them  with 
money.  He  assured  me  that  he  had  a  reason  for  his 
conduct,  and  that  he  was  certain  that  I  should  not 
blame  him  if  I  knew  it.  He  added  that  the  neces- 
sity for  economy  would  soon  cease,  and  that  he  should 
then  have  the  pleasure  of  indulging  his  natural  feel- 
ings of  liberality.  I  was  not  satisfied  with  this  reply. 
I  required  him  to  give  a  direct  answer  to  a  direct 
question,  and  to  tell  me  what  were  his  motives  for 
saving,  and  why  they  should  exist  at  one  time  more 
than  another." 

"  It  was  very  merciless  of  you,"  said  Stratford. 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  replied  Adelaide.  "  Alton  had 
given  me  such  ffroofs  of  his  truthful  and  honorable 
nature,  that  I  knew,  if  he  held  back  any  communica- 
tion from  me,  he  could  only  do  so  because  it  was 
creditable  to  him,  and  because  he  wished  to  avoid  the 
appearance  of  boasting  of  his  own  good  deeds :  and 
so  it  indeed  proved  to  be.  Alton  had  for  five  years 
been  denying  himself  every  enjoyment  suitable  to  his 


THE   HEIRESS   AND   HER   WOOERS.  51 

age  and  tastes,  for  the  purpose  of  saving  the  sum  of 
money  of  which  his  father  had  defrauded  his  em- 
ployer. When  he  first  began  this  undertaking,  if 
seemed  likely  to  prove  a  very  tedious  one ;  but  two 
years  ago,  he  happily  received  a  legacy  from  a  rela- 
tion, which  more  than  half  realized  the  amount  that 
he  required:  still,  however,  he  did  not  slacken  in  his 
laudable  energy;  and  shortly  after  the  conversation 
to  which  I  have  alluded,  he  was  enabled  to  pay 
over  the  whole  sum,  with  the  accumulated  interest,  to 
the  Liverpool  merchant,  who  sent  him  a  letter  full 
of  the  kindest  expressions  of  approbation,  concluding 
with  the  assurance  that  he  should  make  his  noble  act 
of  atonement  generally  known  among  all  his  friends. 
Therefore  by  this  time  every  one  who  has  censured 
the  faults  and  frailties  of  the  father  is  engaged  in 
lauding  the  honor  and  honesty  of  the  son." 

Stratford  had  heard  quite  enough ;  he  took  a  hasty 
leave,  sincerely  repenting  that  he  had  ever  thought 
of  troubling  the  bride  elect  with  a  morning  call. 

Alton  and  Adelaide  were  married  in  the  course  of 
a  few  weeks :  two  years  have  elapsed  since  that  time, 
and  I  am  of  opinion  that  the  unusual  happiness  they 
enjoy  is  greatly  to  be  attributed  to  the  truthfulness 
which  is  the  decided  characteristic  of  both  of  them. 


52  THE   HEIRESS    AND    HER   WOOERS. 

I  am  aware  that  many  of  my  readers  will  say  that 
it  is  of  little  importance  whether  a  married  couple, 
whose  interests  necessarily  bind  them  together,  should 
mutually  love  truth,  or  mutually  agree  in  sanctioning 
the  thousand  and  one  little  falsities  of  worldly  ex- 
pediency; but  I  think  that  those  who  hold  such  an 
opinion  cannot  have  had  many  opportunities  of  closely 
observing  the  domestic  circles  of  their  friends  and 
neighbors.  Had  they  done  so,  they  would  have  been 
aware  that  the  beginning  of  matrimonial  unhappiness 
repeatedly  arises  from  the  detection  by  one  party  of 
some  slight  violation  of  truth  on  the  part  of  the  other. 
Often  such  a  violation  is  committed  with  no  ill  intent ; 
nay,  often,  indeed,  is  it  done  with  the  kind  motive  of 
sparing  some  little  trouble  or  anxiety  to  the  beloved 
one.  A  trifling  trouble  is  concealed,  a  small  expense 
kept  in  the  background,  the  visit  of  an  intrusive  guest 
unmentioned,  or  a  letter  read  aloud  with  the  omission 
of  a  short  part  of  it,  which  might  be  supposed  to  be 
unpleasant  to  the  listener.  These  concealments  and 
misrepresentations,  in  themselves  so  seemingly  slight, 
become  of  terrific  account  when  frequently  repeated; 
confidence  is  shaken,  and  when  once  that  is  the  case, 
conjugal  happiness  is  soon  at  an  end.  Adelaide  and 
her  husband  are  on  the  most  confidential  terms, 


THE   HEIRESS   AND   HER   WOOERS.  53 

because  neither  of  them  ever  thinks  whether  a  true 
remark  or  communication  is  agreeable  or  not ;  they 
speak  it  because  it  is  the  truth ;  and  if  a  moment's 
pain  be  thus  given,  the  passing  cloud  breaks  almost 
as  soon  as  it  is  perceived;  no  tempests  are  suffered 
to  gather  in  the  distance,  and  the  heiress  constantly 
congratulates  herself  that  she  chose  not  the  handsom- 
est, the  cleverest,  or  the  most  fashionable,  but  the 
most  truthful  of  her  "wooers."  Of  these  wooers  I 
have  but  little  to  say.  Captain  Nesbitt  is  on  the 
point  of  marriage  with  a  middle-aged  widow  of  good 
fortune ;  he  was  successful  in  impressing  her  with  the 
belief  that  he  must  ultimately  inherit  his  uncle's,  prop- 
erty ;  but  she  was  more  cautious  than  ladies  of  fewer 
years  and  less  experience  might  have  been,  and  made 
so  many  inquiries  about  the  state  of  health  of  the  old 
gentleman,  that  his  nephew  was  obliged  to  improvise 
an  apoplectic  fit  for  him !  This  intelligence  caused 
the  widow  to  fix  the  day,  but  she  is  providing  a  very 
limited  trousseau,  since  she  anticipates  the  "melan- 
choly pleasure"  of  giving  large  orders  in  the  course 
of  a  few  weeks  at  one  of  the  "mansions  of  grief" 
in  Regent  Street. 

Talbot   and    Stratford  seldom  meet:   indeed,  if  one 
becomes  introduced  into   a  family,  the  other  almosf 
5* 


54  THE   HEIRESS   AND    HER   WOOERS. 

invariably  ceases  to  visit  there.  However,  there  are 
two  points  in  which  they  show  great  sympathy  and 
congeniality  of  mind.  They  particularly  dislike  to 
hear  of  the  failure  of  a  new  piece  at  the  theatre ; 
and  there  is  no  work  for  which  they  feel  such  unmiti- 
gated detestation  as  one  which  still  engrosses  much 
of  the  public  notice  —  the  tragedy  of  the  "Russian 
Brothers." 


SUNSHINE, 

BY  MARIA.  NORRI3. 

CoimAGE,  faint  heart!     "Why  all  these  fearg 

And  questions  for  the  morrow? 
Wipe,  wipe  away  these  bitter  tears, 

Mute  signs  of  useless  sorrow ! 
God's  planets  shine  behind  the  mist; 

So  beam  thy  faith  unclouded  — 
Like  mountain  tops  by  daylight  kissed, 

Though  all  their  base  be  shrouded. 

One  Hand  holds  up  the  stars  that  roll, 

And  girdles  in  the  ocean; 
His  love  is  shed  on  every  soul 

To  which  he  gave  emotion. 
O,  not  one  slightest  woe  befalls 

But  he  gives  strength  to  bear  it; 
Can  He  be  deaf  to  Sorrow's  calls 

Who  came  on  earth  to  share  it  ? 


56  SUNSHINE. 

Look  up,  my  brother !     God  is  good, 

And  cares  for  human  grieving; 
His  discipline  is  spirit  food 

To  strengthen  thy  believing. 
Look  up  !     Tread  under  feet  the  earth  — - • 

Keep  free  a  soaring  spirit; 
Clay  only  gave  thy  body  birth; 

That  soul  may  all  inherit. 

Faith,  hope,  and  love  are  golden  keys, 

That  brighten  in  the  using; 
Thou  mayst  unlock  all  heaven  with  these, 

Thine  every  foe  confusing. 
Courage,  faint  heart !     Why  all  these  fears 

And  questions  for  the  morrow? 
Dear  brother,  wipe  away  thy  tears  — 

God's  love  metes  out  thy  sorrow. 


BACHELOR    BBI, 


OR    THE     MAGIC     OP     A     LAUGH, 


BY    HATTIE. 


You  know  her,  do  you  ?  the  bright-eyed,  kind- 
liearted,  happy  Fannie,  —  she,  the  light  and  joy  of  a 
wide  circle  of  friends,  who  luxuriate  in  her  loving 
smiles  as  in  the  sunshine  of  spring,  who  laugh  be- 
cause she  laughs,  and  carol  their  sweet  songs  because 
she  leads  the  way  with  her  chirruping  voice.  O,  you 
know  her ;  I  know  you  do.  I  can  see  it  in  the 
dimpling  smile  that  sleeps  within  your  cheek  when  I 
mention  her  name ;  the  bewitching  glance  of  your 
eye  when  I  tell  you  of  her. 

She  is  always  happy.  She  sees  nothing  in  nature 
but  gladness ;  nothing  in  its  God  but  goodness ;  and 
blending  these  together  in  one  sweet,  harmonious 
whole,  she  worships  with  all  the  devotion  of  an  inno- 
cent love. 


58  BACHELOR   BIM. 

Fannie  was  born  in  the  spring,  and  whether  or 
not  the  fact  is  to  be  attributed  to  such  a  birth  time 
or  not,  it  nevertheless  is  a  fact  that  she  delights  in 
the  spring  time  and  beauties.  As  it  advances,  and  its 
"  ethereal  mildness "  wafts  the  sweet  fragrance  of  wood 
and  forest  to  her  cottage  home,  she  instinctively  hies 
away  to  the  home  of  the  birds  and  flowers.  She 
calls  around  her  half  a  score  of  loved  companions,  and 
hand  in  hand  romps  with  them  in  Nature's  festival 
hall,  tapestried  with  green  leaves,  bright  blossoms,  and 
budding  vines. 

They  wander  by  brook  and  brae,  and  bind  wreaths 
for  their  friends  at  home,  whose  avocation  or  ill 
health  prevents  them  from  being  participants  in  their 
out-door  sports. 

Adventurous  was  the  spirit  of  Fannie.  She  de- 
lighted to  clamber  over  the  rude  rocks,  and  cast  the 
bright  glances  of  her  eyes  into  nooks  and  crevices 
never  before  illumined  by  so  fair  a  light.  Nor  was 
her  limit  the  forest  and  field,  as  the  sequel  will  show. 

There  was  an  old,  large,  dilapidated  building,  situ 
ated  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  Fannie's  dwell- 
ing. The  reputed  owner  was  a  bachelor,  one  of  those 
creatures  who  are  so  fond  of  themselves  that  they 
desire  no  other  companion  —  no  warm  heart  to  beat 
in  unison  with  their  own,  no  hand  to  press  the  aching 


BACHELOR  BIM. 

brow,  no  gentle  voice  to  soothe,  comfort,  cheer  the 
hours  of  lingering  sickness  :  — 

"  Ocean  and  land  the  globe  divide ; 

Summer  and  winter  share  the  year; 
Darkness  and  light  walk  side  by  side ; 
And  earth  and  heaven  are  always  near." 

But  these  poor,  mistaken  fellows,  who  dream  of 
bliss  without  aught  to  create  it,  would  live  alone,  un- 
supported, unaided,  alone.  O,  cheerless  word  to  a 
heart  made  to  love  and  be  loved. 

The  grim  old  mansion  stood  alone  also.  It  partook 
of  the  general  appearance  of  loneliness  that  surrounded 
it ;  even  the  stones  seemed  desirous  of  parting ;  and 
a  few  really  had  done  so,  and  remained  where  they 
had  fallen — types  of  bachelors'  hearts. 

The  house  was  one  of  those  large,  uncouth  struc- 
tures, not  uncommon,  known  as  somebody's  "folly," 
and  was  large  enough  to  justify  truth  in  a  newspaper 
ad , ertisement  of  "a  two-story  house,  containing  an 
acre  of  land  and  other  conveniences."  Bachelor  Bim 
lived  in  one  undivided  corner  of  this  edifice,  and  it 
was  he  that  Fannie  and  her  friends  proposed  to 
visit,  en  masse.  So,  one  summer  morning,  just  as 
breakfast  had  been  dished,  they  dressed  themselves  in 
gay  attire,  and  laughing  with  an  earnestness  indicative 


60  BACHELOR   BIM. 

of  the  peculiar  feature  of  their  merry  mission,  passed 
in  the  direction  of  the  field  of  battle. 

As  they  neared  it,  unmistakable  signs  of  theii  close 
approach  were  to  be  seen.  Here  was  a  wagob.  with 
but  one  wheel;  there  a  chaise,  old  and  musty,  with 

but  one  seat. 

/ 

Fannie,  quick  in  thought,  saw  all,  and  accounted 
for  the  singleness  of  spirit  which  had  diffused  itself 
into  all  animate  and  inanimate  things,  by  indiscrimi- 
nately calling  them  "  chips  of  the  old  block." 

The  building  was  in  view ;  and,  inclined  to  jocund 
laughter  as  the  fair  invaders  were,  a  feeling,  not  really 
of  sadness,  but  inclined  that  way,  came  upon  their 
minds.  How  lonely,  when  all  might  be  so  cheerful ! 
And  as  they  carefully  opened  the  gate  which,  by  the 
way,  was  dangling  upon  one  hinge,  they  thought  how 
different  all  would  be  with  woman's  gentle  hand  to 
arrange,  woman's  sweet  smile  to  cheer. 

Then  followed  a  loud,  clear  laugh,  that  made  the 
old  porch  echo  with  its  sourid. 

Fannie  was  the  first  to  enter.  Silently,  with  finger 
on  her  mouth  as  a  token  of  the  momentary  silence 
she  wished  her  companions  to  observe,  unconscious  of 
the  near  presence  of  the  owner  of  the  house,  who, 
having  heard  the  visitants,  had  concealed  himself  be- 
hind an  old  carpet  that  hung  near  the  door,  and 


BACHELOR   BIH.  61 

looking  out  from  an  opening  in  its  folds,  was  intently 
watching  their  movements. 

They  continued  to  advance,  and  one  by  one  ascended 
the  dusty  stairs. 

Bachelor  Bun,  seeing  the  boldness  of  the  intruders 
upon  his  single  blessedness,  began  to  twitch  about 
and  make  himself  uneasy. 

Altogether  unused  to  such  visitors,  he  hated  their 
presence.  Hermit-like,  he  had  withdrawn  himself 
from  his  fellows,  and  saw  none,  neither  man  nor 
woman,  except  as  they  occasionally  passed  his  house 
and  then  not  very  distinctly,  for  they  invariably  glided 
by  with  all  speed,  a  rumor  being  in  circulation  that 
Bim  and  the  evil  one  lived  together,  and  laid  traps 
for  strangers. 

As  he  saw  the  last  of  the  frolicsome  ascend,  Mr. 
Bim  passed  up  by  a  rear  stairway,  and,  determined 
to  appear  as  well  as  circumstances  would  allow,  seated 
himself  on  a  broken  chair  in  what  he  called  "the 
best  room." 

Shook !  How  he  shook  and  shivered  as  the  laugh 
was  heard  resounding  within  those  sombre  walls  !  And 
the  madcaps,  as  he  calls  them,  approach.  Closer  to  his 
chair  he  clings,  firmer  he  sits.  Lo !  one  leg  breaks 
beneath  his  weight,  and  he  balances  himself  on  two. 
Just  at  this  moment  the  door  opens,  and  in  rush  the 
6 


62  BACHELOR  BIM. 

visitors,  in  all  the  beauty  and  liveliness  of  girl- 
hood. 

Fannie,  with  her  light  hood  carelessly  tossed  upon 
her  head ;  Imogen,  with  her  bright,  black  curls  dancing 
around  her  clear,  white  shoulders ;  Minnie,  with  a 
wreath  of  green  encircling  her  brow ;  Anna,  tall  and 
graceful  as  a  fawn ;  Jeannette,  with  full,  flooding  eye 
of  blue ;  and  six  others,  equally  as  fair,  enticing,  be- 
witching, and  beautiful,  in  an  instant  stood  laughing 
with  hearty  zest  around  Bachelor  Bim. 

What  should  he  do? 

What  could  he  do  but  participate  with  them  in  the 
sunlight  of  the  moment  ?  And  so  he  did.  •  At  first 
his  heart  inclined  to  anger:  unaccustomed  to  the  so- 
cial habits  of  life,  he  would  at  first  withdraw.  But 
how  to  withdraw  ?  Ah,  that  was  the  question  !  There 
was  where  Greek  met  Greek.  There  was  where 
came  the  tug  of  war.  He  could  not  withdraw.  They 
encircled  him.  They  all  laughed  loud  and  heartily, 
in  compliance  with  the  request  of  Fannie,  who  led  the 
expedition  for  the  purpose  of  testing  the  efficacious- 
ness of  laughter  and  hilarity  as  an  antidote  for 
stoicism  and  moroseness. 

Beneath  the  effect  of  the  laughter,  Bim's  heart 
melted ;  he  jumped  up,  danced  about,  mad  with  joy, 
and  though  he  resisted  at  first,  he  yielded  at  last. 


BACHELOR   BIM.  63 

He  conducted  his  gay  company  around  his  house,  and 
though  ashamed  of  what  was  to  be  seen,  he  excused 
all  by  promising  improvement,  and  living  more  like  a 
human  being  in  future. 

"  And  now,"  said  Fannie,  as  they  were  about  to 
leave,  "  we  must  have  your  promise ;  you  must  prom- 
ise to  marry."  'Twas  hard  to  promise  such  an  event, 
so  allied  to  an  impossibility.  Yet  he  did. 

Fannie  and  her  companions  each  'kissed  the  old 
fellow,  after  which  operation  he  reiterated,  with  de- 
cided emphasis,  his  determination  to  marry ;  and  they 
left  him  fully  satisfied  with  the  effects  produced  by 
the  "  magic  of  a  laugh."  ** 


THE    SCHOOLMASTER'S    STORY. 

FROM   THE   ITALIAN. 

"AND  what  13  your  opinion?"  asked  the  youngest 
of  the  party,  turning  to.  the  schoolmaster. 

"  Mine  ?  "  answered  he.  "  O,  I  never  talk  politics  I 
Women  and  priests  are  exempt ;  and  I  am  not  at  all 
disposed  to  give  up  my  privilege  —  a  great  one  in 
my  eyes." 

"  And  yet,"  said  the  youth.  But  another  voice  was 
raised  above  his,  and  then  another,  and  then  all  spoke 
at  once,  and  an  eager  and  noisy  discussion  ensued ; 
till  at  last,  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  were  heard 
the  words,  "At  least,  in  the  tune  of  the  French " 

"  In  the  time  of  the  French,"  interrupted  the  school- 
master, with  unusual  emphasis  — "  in  the  time  of  the 
French  was  the  conscription." 

"  And  so  there  is  now,"  cried  two  or  three  voices. 

"In  the  time  of  the  French,"  resumed  the  school- 
master, and  repeated  the  words  a  fourth  time  —  "in 
the  time  of  the  French  the  conscription  was  quite 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STOET.  65 

another  thing  —  sons,  husbands,  and  brothers  torn  from 
their  families,  tied  together  like  cattle,  and  sent  a 
thousand  miles  off  to  slaughter  !  For  slaughter  it  was, 
as  far  as  we  were  concerned.  The  war  was  no  affair 
of  ours,  and  signified  nothing  to  us  in  any  way ;  and 
the  authors  of  it  were  not  the  greatest  sufferers  ;  rather 
those  who  lost  by  it  all  that  they  cared  for  in  the 
world,  without  the  consolation  of  feeling  they  had  been 
serving  their  king  and  country.  And  even  of  those 
who  took  a  liking  for  the  trade,  how  many  paid  cru- 
elly for  it  in  the  long  run ! "  And  here  he  paused, 
but  as  if  he  had  more  to  say  on  the  subject ;  and  as 
he  was  much  liked  by  all  the  young  folk,  and  gen- 
erally listened  to  with  pleasure,  and  so  much  the  more 
just  now,  as  is  commonly  the  case  with  one  who  has 
kept  silence  during  a  long  debate,  and  speaks  only 
•  when  his  heart  is  full,  and  when  others  have  had 
their  say,  all  were  silent,  and  seemed  to  expect  him 
to  continue.  So,  after  a  few  minutes,  he  added,  "  If  I 
were  not  afraid  of  disturbing  the  gayety  of  the  evening, 
I  would  tell  you  of  something  which  came  within  my 
own  knowledge,  in  which  I  took  a  part  myself,  and 
which  I  can  never  forget  as  long  as  I  live.  But  it 
is  not  by  any  means  an  amusing  tale.  It  is  a  story 
of  poor  country  people,  which  I  would  not  tell  to  coun- 
try people ;  but  to  you  it  may  serve  as  an  illustration 
6* 


66  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STOUT. 

of  the  matters  in  dispute,  into  which  I  do  not  wish 
to  enter."  And  all  begging  that  he  would  tell  it, 
except  two  or  three,  who  went  out  to  play  at  skittles, 
we  drew  near  him,  and  he  began  thus :  — 

"  In  the  time  of  the  French,  when  I  was  school- 
master in  a  parish  of  the  Monferrato  country,  not  far 
from  Le  Langhe,  I  knew  a  lad  named  Toniotto,  and  a 
girl  called  Maria.  I  believe  their  families  were  some- 
how related ;  at  any  rate  they  were  near  neighbors,  and 
the  two  children  were  such  great  friends,  and  such 
constant  companions,  that  those  who  did  not  know 
them  took  them  for  brother  and  sister ;  and  those  who 
did  know,  and  had  seen  them  grow  up  together,  were 
always  saying  what  a  nice  couple  they  would  make  as 
man  and  wife.  Toniotto  at  eighteen  was  one  of  the 
finest  lads  in  the  country  round,  or,  indeed,  that  T 
ever  saw  any  where,  though  I  lived  many  years  in 
Rome  and  in  the  south  of  Italy,  where  the  handsom- 
est men  in  all  the  world  are  to  be  met  with.  Maria 
was  quite  a  little  Madonna,  fair  and  gentle,  and  sim- 
ple as  a  dove.  Neither  of  them  made  any  secret  of 
it;  they  loved  each  other,  and  every  one  knew  it, 
and  they  were  beloved  by  all  about  them.  There  was 
but  one  opinion  of  them,  and  one  wish  for  them  — 
that  their  love  might  prosper.  The  girl  was  but  six- 
teen: their  marriage  was  a  settled  thing,  but  her 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  67 

parents  wished  them  to  wait  to  see  whether  Toniotto 
might  not  chance  to  be  included  in  the  conscription. 
'  What  would  be  the  use  of  her  marrying,'  they  said, 
*  when  she  might  be  as  good  as  unmarried,  or  a  widow, 
directly  after  ? '  The  parents  of  Toniotto  thought  the 
same.  Not  so  the  two  young  people.  Maria  said 
that  if  she  were  once  married  to  him,  she  might  go 
with  the  regiment  as  laundress,  or  in  some  other  ca- 
pacity ;  and  Toniotto,  though  he  did  not  encourage 
this  notion,  said,  if  he  must  leave  her,  he  should  prefer 
leaving  her  as  his  wife ;  but  both  of  them,  with  the 
confidence  of  youth,  hoped  for  the  best,  and  if  they 
thought  on  the  matter  at  all,  trusted  Toniotto  would 
draw  a  lucky  number :  and  so  they  went  on  loving  all 
the  same  ;  or  rather,  loved  each  other  better  every  day. 
"  One  day,  however,  when  no  one  was  thinking 
about  it,  —  I  remember  well  how  my  heart  sank  when 
I  saw  them,  —  came  the  soldiers  of  the  conscription. 
The  poor  children  were  piteous  to  behold.  Maria, 
who  had  before  been  like  an  opening  rosebud,  was 
now  languid  and  pale,  her  head  hanging  down,  and 
her  heavy  eyes  surrounded  by  a  dark  circle,  which 
told  of  nights  passed  more  in  tears  than  in  sleep. 
Toniotto,  on  the  contrary,  appeared  every  day  more 
excited,  his  cheeks  flushed,  his  lips  compressed,  or 
biting  his  thumb,  and  his  large  eyes  glaring  upon 


68  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

every  one  he  met,  as  if  he  were  the  gendarme  who 
was  to  tear  him  from  the  arms  of  his  betrothed.  It 
was  plain  that  thoughts  had  entered  into  his  mind 
which,  once  admitted,  ruin  and  change  a  man's  char- 
acter entirely.  Hitherto  he  had  been  a  steady,  home- 
keeping  youth,  and  any  thing  but  dissipated ;  now  he 
began  to  absent  himself  for  days  together,  which  he 
pretended  he  passed  at  the  fetes  of  the  neighboring 
villages.  But  no  one  believed  this ;  because  Maria 
had  never  once  gone  out  of  the  house.  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  many  people,  and  I  amongst  the  number, 
thought  at  that  time  that  he  was  getting  into  bad  com- 
pany, and  had  put  himself  in  communication  with  some 
bandits  who  were  just  then  in  the  neighborhood  —  the 
remains  of  the  troop  of  that  Majino,  who,  a  few  years 
before,  had  made  himself  famous,  under  the  name  of 
Emperor  of  the  Alps.  However,  this  may  have  been 
a  false  report. 

"  When  the  day  came  on  which  the  drawing  was  to 
take  place,  Toniotto  went,  as  desired,  to  the  principal 
town  of  the  district ;  and  Maria,  who  accompanied  him, 
was  observed  talking  to  him  warmly  and  earnestly,  as 
if  trying  to  persuade  him  to  something,  while  he  lis- 
tened in  sullen  silence.  Arrived  at  the  place  where 
the  lottery  was  to  be  drawn,  he  dropped  her  arm 
suddenly,  and  she  slipped  away  into  a  corner,  where, 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  69 

unperceived,  she  could  hear  the  numbers  as  they 
were  called,  while  he  mingled  with  the  crowd  of 
youths  who  were  waiting.  There  were  many  among 
them  who  said  to  him,  <  Toniotto,  we  pray  God  you 
may  draw  a  lucky  number  rather  than  we.  To  be 
sure,  there  is  not  one  of  us  but  has  father,  or  mother, 
or  sister,  or  some  one  with  whom,  God  willing,  it  is 
our  duty  to  stay ;  but  if  it  is  our  lot  to  leave  them, 
why,  it's  not  our  own  fault;  and  we  shall  see  new 
countries,  and  who  knows  but  we  may  become  officers, 
and  perhaps  generals !  How  many  have  returned  so, 
who  left  the  country  like  ourselves !  But  for  you, 
poor  fellow,  to  leave  that  pretty  sweetheart  of  yours 
who  is  crying  there,  it  would  be  a  sin  ! ' 

"  Toniotto  made  no  answer ;  and  the  prefect  and 
the  commandant  of  the  department  having  arrived, 
they  proceeded  to  call  each  man  in  turn  to  draw  his 
number.  You  may  imagine  how  poor  Maria's  heart 
beat  when  Toniotto's  turn  came,  and  his  too,  though 
he  appeared  firm.  He  stepped  up  to  the  table,  and 
drew  one  of  the  very  first  numbers.  There  could  not 
be  a  doubt:  he  must  be  among  the  conscripts.  The 
poor  girl  was  carried  out  senseless.  Toniotto  spoke 
not  a  word ;  and  the  drawing  being  over,  the  men 
examined  as  to  their  fitness  or  unfitness  for  ser- 
Tice,  and  orders  given  to  those  who  were  selected 


70  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

(amongst  whom  was  Toniotto,  of  course)  to  be  at  the 
same  place  at  the  end  of  three  days,  and  the  penal- 
ties in  case  of  disobedience  read,  all  departed,  and  he 

• 

with  the  rest.  His  parents  wanted  him  to  return 
with  them ;  but  he  refused,  saying  he  would  come 
with  the  other  young  men.  They  expected  him  in 
vain,  however,  all  that  day  and  night.  He  never 
came.  You  may  imagine  the  fright  they  were  in, 
thinking  that  both  the  happy  youth  and  themselves 
would  incur  those  heavy  penalties  which,  in  default 
of  fugitive  conscripts,  fell  upon  the  parents.  They 
spent  the  whole  three  days  in  this  misery,  constantly 
hoping  for  Toniotto's  return.  On  the  fourth  day,  a 
corporal  came  to  inquire  into  his  absence ;  and,  as 
the  family  was  •  respectable,  and  every  one  ready  to 
be  bail  for  them,  two  more  days  were  granted  for 
them  to  discover  and  give  up  the  recusant;  but  they 
had  no  idea  where  to  look  for  him,  and  were  in  utter 
despair. 

"  On  the  fifth  day  came  two  other  soldiers,  (called 
in  French  garnisaires,)  to  quarter  themselves  upon 
the  father  of  Toniotto,  until  the  conscript  was  -given 
up  or  fine  paid. 

"  The  same  evening,  certain  ill-looking  fellows  were 
seen  hanging  about  the  village ;  and  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  a  boy  came  to  Toniotto's  father  to  ask  him 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STOUT  71 

to  go  and  speak  with  somebody  who  was  waiting 
behind  the  church.  On  going  thither,  there  he  found 
his  son,  and  they  remained  full  three  hours  together, 
in  warm  discussion.  They  were  seen  by  several  per- 
sons, and  it  was  thought  that  Toniotto  was  endeavor- 
ing to  prevail  upon  his  father,  who  had  been  a  good 
soldier  in  his  youth,  and  was  yet  a  hale,  hearty  man, 
to  unite  with  him  in  joining  his  friends  the  bandits, 
and  that  the  father  resolutely  refused. 

"  In  the  morning,  Toniotto  reappeared  at  home.  The 
soldiers  would  have  taken  him  into  custody,  but  he 
said  there  was  no  occasion.  He  would  go  of  his  own 
accord  to  head  quarters,  and  give  himself  up,  as  soon 
as  he  had  breakfasted  and  bid  adieu  to  his  people ; 
and,  showing  them  something  or  other  he  had  hidden 
in  his  belt  under  his  waistcoat,  bade  them  beware  of 
touching  him. 

"  He  did  as  he  had  promised.  I  remember  some 
one  came  and  told  me  what  was  going  on,  and  I 
hurried  to  see  Toniotto,  whom  I  found  just  going 
from  his  own  house  into  Maria's.  I  had  but  just 
time  to  say  to  him,  '  God  bless  you ;  you  are  acting 
like  a  dutiful  son ; '  to  which  he  only  answered,  *  True/ 
as  he  entered  her  house.  I  do  not  know  exactly  what 
passed  between  them;  but  Maria  has  often  told  me 
that  he  offered  to  give  her  back  her  word,  and  set 


72  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

her  quite  at  liberty ;  but  she  would  not  have  it,  and 
promised  she  would  wait  for  him.  And  I  must  say, 
at  that  time,  being  yet  inexperienced,  we  all  believed 
in  the  promise  made  by  our  laws ;  namely,  that  con 
scripts  were  to  serve  for  four  years  only,  at  the  end 
of  which  they  would  be  restored  to  their  families. 

"  How  this  promise  was  kept,  we  now  know  too 
well.  None  ever  returned,  unless  he  had  lost  a  limb, 
or  was  otherwise  disabled  for  service. 

"  "Well !  I  walked  up  and  down  before  the  house 
some  twenty  minutes,  and  at  last  there  was  a  loud 
cry  within  doors ;  and  Toniotto,  with  a  disordered 
countenance,  hurried  out  and  ran  back  into  his  father's 
house  for  a  minute.  I  heard  him  peremptorily  desire 
they  would  not  accompany  him,  and  so  he  came  out 
and  set  off  alone.  Poor  fellow !  he  knew  what  awaited 
him,  and  so  did  I ;  so  I  followed  him  at  a  distance 
for  about  a  mile,  and  let  him  alone  to  indulge  his 
grief,  and  then  gradually  approached  and  joined  him. 
He  took  my  hand  as  if  to  thank  me,  and  I  saw  a 
large  tear  roll  down  his  cheek ;  but  he  recovered 
himself  in  a  minute,  composed  his  countenance,  and 
began  to  talk  on  indifferent  matters.  When  we  got 
to  the  town,  I  wanted  him  to  let  me  go  to  the  sub' 
prefect,  whom  I  knew,  to  speak  for  him ;  but  he  would 
not  allow  it,  and  having  asked  an  audience  for 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  73 

himself,  said,  '  I  am  Toniotto  Such-a-one,  who  drew 
such  a  number  t'other  day.  I  have  had  hard  work  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  come  with  the  others ;  and,  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  don't  think  I  ever  should  if  it  had 
not  been  for  my  father  and  my  brothers ;  but  any 
how,  here  I  am/ 

"  I  then  came  forward  and  bore  witness  to  his 
character  and  general  good  conduct  before  the  prefect, 
who  was  very  civil,  and  sending  for  the  quarter- 
master, spoke  to  him  in  the  office  apart,  I  suppose  in 
recommendation,  for  I  heard  the  man  say,  as  he  went 
out,  '  I  will  do  all  I  can.'  He  then  made  a  sign  to 
the  youth  to  follow  him  to  head  quarters. 

"  Toniotto  bade  me  an  affectionate  farewell,  (which 
I  took  to  be  more  for  others  than  for  myself,)  and 
begged  that,  by  all  I  held  dear,  I  would  endeavor  to 
prevent  his  parents  or  Maria  from  coming  to  him, 
especially  on  the  day  of  his  departure.  I  understood 
him ;  and  having  found  out  from  one  of  the  men, 
with  whom  I  entered  into  conversation  for  the  pur- 
pose, that  they  were  to  march  on  next  day,  I  returned 
home  very  sad,  to  fulfil  ,my  promise  to  the  young 
man,  which  was  as  sacred  to  me  as  if  given  on  his 
death  bed. 

"  "When  I  arrived,  finding  that  Maria  was  with 
Toniotto's  family,  I  went  to  execute  his  commission 
7 


74  THE    SCHOOLMASTER'S    STORT. 

at  once.  Maria  said  directly,  that  she  should  cer 
tainly  go  to  him  to-morrow  all  the  same.  I  told  her 
she  would  not  see  him.  '  Then  he  is  in  prison ! ' 
cried  she.  '  I  do  not  think  he  is/  said  I ;  ( but  he 
does  not  wish  you  to  be  there  when  he  goes/  '  Then 
he  goes  to-morrow ! '  she  exclaimed.  She  had  heard 
from  some  one  or  other  how  recusant  conscripts  were 
treated  on  their  march,  and  the  poor  girl  now  saw  it 
all  clearly;  and  I  don't  believe  the  most  prudent  di- 
plomatist in  the  world  could  have  kept  it  from  her. 

"  Next  morning,  Maria  went  out  with  her  little  bas- 
ket on  her  arm,  so  early  that  no  one  was  up  at  home, 
and  the  folks  who  met  her  on  the  road  supposed  she 
was  going  to  market ;  but  her  own  people,  who  had 
been  astonished  that  she  should  have  the  heart  to  go 
there  that  day,  finding  she  did  not  return  at  the  usual 
time,  made  up  their  minds  that  she  must  have  gone 
to  see  Toniotto,  and  sent  her  two  brothers  after  her; 
but  when  they  got  to  the  town,  they  found  him  gone, 
and  no  news  of  her. 

"  In  fact,  thinking  that  they  would  most  likely  come 
to  look  for  her  there,  she  had  not  gone  to  town  at 
all,  but  had  taken  the  road  by  which  she  knew  the 
conscripts  must  pass,  and  by  dint  of  asking,  right  and 
left,  had  found  out  what  would  be  their  first  halt,  and 
gone  straight  there. 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  75 

"  Here  Toniotto  found  her  when  he  arrived,  escorted 
by  two  gendarmes  like  a  felon,  but  not  pinioned ;  and 
the  soldiers,  recognizing  her,  allowed  her  to  speak  to 
him,  and  upon  her  offering  them  a  share  of  the  pro- 
visions she  had  brought  for  Toniotto,  they  permitted 
her  to  give  the  rest  to  him,  and  to  stay  with  him 
the  short  time  they  stopped  there.  He  could  not 
succeed  in  dissuading  her  from  her  determination  to 
go  on  with  the  party  that  evening,  and  accompany 
them  to  the  place  where  they  halted  for  the  night. 

"  There  he  was  locked  up,  and  Maria  contrived  to 
get  shelter  from  a  poor  woman  who  took  her  in  for 
charity,  and  was  at  the  prison  door  next  morning 
before  Toniotto  was  brought  out.  Think  what  she 
must  have  felt  at  seeing  him  with  his  hands  tied 
behind  his  back,  and  joined  by  a  long  rope  to  twenty 
others,  two  and  two  together,  like  galley  slaves ;  and 
these  were  soldiers  of  that  general  who  exalted  the 
military  profession  above  all  others !  The  other  men 
did  not  so  much  feel  this  degradation,  which  they 
knew  would  not  last  for  more  than  a  day  or  two,  till 
they  should  have  crossed  the  Alps,  or  at  most  till 
they  had  reached  the  depot;  but  what  a  grief  was  it 
to  poor  Toniotto  to  be  seen  by  his  betrothed  in  such 
a  condition ! 

"  As  she  persisted  in  walking  along  with  them,  he 


76  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

asked  her  what  she  meant  to  do,  and  what  good  there 
could  be  in  her  following  them  thus.  She  answered 
that  she  did  not  know;  she  had  thought  of  nothir* 
but  her  wish  to  see  him  once  more  and  go  part  of 
the  way  with  him ;  and  then  she  went  back  to  her 
old  idea  of  going  with  the  regiment  as  washerwoman. 
He  would  not  hear  of  this,  and  spoke  of  her  duty  to 
her  parents,  at  which  she  began  to  cry ;  and  his  com- 
panions, most  of  them,  made  game  of  her,  and  the 
gendarmes,  who  were  not  the  same  as  those  of  the 
day  before,  teased  and  insulted  her. 

"  It  was  still  worse  when  they  reached  the  place 
where  they  were  to  dine.  The  men  were  all  put  into 
a  barn  behind  the  inn,  and  locked  up ;  and  the  poor 
girl,  driven  from  the  door,  sat  down  at  a  little  dis- 
tance and  waited,  without  taking  even  a  bit  of  bread 
or  a  cup  of  water,  till  the  recruits  came  out  again, 
bound  as  before.  Then  she  took  her  old  place  be- 
side Toniotto,  and,  as  they  walked  along,  kept  putting 
into  his  mouth  some  fruit  to  refresh  him.  In  vain 
he  implored  her  to  leave  him :  she  still  went  on, 
without  knowing  why  or  wherefore,  till  at  last,  that 
evening,  just  before  they  reached  the  inn  where  they 
were  to  stop,  they  were  overtaken  by  her  two  broth- 
ers, who,  guessing  what  had  become  of  her,  had  fol- 
lowed her  hither.  As  they  were  good-hearted  lads, 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  77 

and  besides  felt  that  it  might  not  be  long  before  they 
were  themselves  in  the  same  case,  they  did  not  scold 
her,  but  only  pressed  her  kindly  to  return  home  with 
them  ;  and  she  made  no  resistance,  especially  as  To- 
niotto  joined  his  entreaties  to  theirs.  So  it  was  settled 
that  they  should  all  stay  there  that  night,  and  next 
morning,  after  the  soldiers  had  set  out,  Maria  should 
go  home  with  her  brothers. 

•'They  passed  the  night  —  he  in  prison,  and  she 
with  her  brothers  at  the  inn  ;  but  the  poor  girl  had 
hardly  got  to  bed  before  she  was  seized  with  fever, 
from  the  fatigue,  and  hardships,  and  want  of  food, 
and,  above  all,  from  the  great  sorrow  she  had  en- 
dured. She  was  delirious  all  night,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing one  of  her  brothers  had  to  stay  and  look  after 
her,  while  the  other  went  to  inform  Toniotto  of  her 
illness  and  give  him  a  last  embrace.  The  poor  fellow 
could  not  even  return  it.  He  and  his  companions 
were  hurried  off;  and  thus  he  parted  from  the  last 
of  his  friends. 

"  For  more  than  a  fortnight  Maria  continued  very 
ill,  her  brothers  and  her  mother  (who  had  come  to 
her  on  hearing  where  she  was)  staying  to  nurse  her. 
As  soon  as  ever  she  could  be  moved,  they  all  came 
back  to  the  village  together.  No  one  would  have 
known  the  girl,  she  was  so  altered  ;  but  there  was 
7* 


78  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STOBY. 

not  a  soul  who  said  a  harsh  word  of  her  on  account 
of  her  imprudent  journey,  so  much  was  she  loved  and 
esteemed  by  all,  and  so  well  known  were  their  love 
for  each  other,  and  her  entire  innocence. 

"  By  little  and  little,  she  recovered  her  health  and 
spirits,  and  especially  when  his  parents  received  the 
first  letter  from  Toniotto,  which  I  heard  so  often  that 
I  know  it  by  heart.  This  was  what  it  said :  — 

" '  Dear  Father :  The  first  use  I  make  of  my  hands 
is  to  write  this  to  you  to  tell  you  that  we  are  safely 
arrived  here  at  the  depot,  which  is  in  a  town  called 
Besanpon,  and  they  say  we  shall  stay  here  but  a  very 
short  time.  I  am  already  dressed  in  regimentals,  and 
you  would  not  know  me  in  them.  The  number  of 
the  regiment  and  of  the  company  is  marked  all  over 
them,  so  we  look^  like  the  sheep  in  our  country  who 
are  branded  with  their  master's  mark.  No  sooner  had 
I  got  my  clothes,  than  I  was  set  to  drill ;  that  is,  to 
learn  to  march  and  turn  my  head  this  way  and  that, 
and  in  two  or  three  days  I  am  to  have  my  musket. 
We  do  nothing  else  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  and  we 
are  all  longing  for  marching  orders,  that  there  may  be 
an  end  of  this  bother,  and  no  more  talk  of  conscripts, 
which  is  a  word  that  is  always  being  thrown  in  one's 
face  here.  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  gol 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  79 

over  my  leaving  you,  and  especially  wish  for  news  of 
dear  Maria.  She  made  me  very  unhappy  by  persist- 
ing in  following  me  those  two  days  ;  but  I  swear  to 
you,  my  dear  father,  she  was  no  more  nor  less  than 
a  sister  to  me  —  and,  indeed,  it  could  not  have  been 
otherwise,  even  if  I  had  wished  it.  I  only  hope  no 
one  thought  any  harm  of  her.  I  beg  you  will  em- 
brace her  for  me,  for  even  that  was  out  of  my  power ; 
and  give  my  respects  to  her  mother  and  brothers, 
and  to  the  good  master,  and  my  best  thanks  to  him 
for  haying  taught  me  to  write,  which  is  a  great  com- 
fort to  me  this  day  to  be  able  to  do.  My  love  to 
my  brother  and  yourself,  and  I  ask  your  blessing  for 
your  affectionate  son,  TONIOTTO.' 

"  The  next  letter  that  came  was  from  Magdeburg 
and  told  of  his  being  at  the  great  battle  of  Jena;  and 
that  he  had  heard  say  that  every  one  was  frightened 
at  first  going  into  battle,  but  that  to  him  it  was  the 
greatest  pleasure  he  had  had  since  leaving  home,  for 
none  of  his  comrades  now  called  him  conscript;  and 
he  had  got  into  the  grenadiers. 

"  Another  letter  was  received  during  the  winter 
from  some  place  or  other  in  Poland ;  and  then,  the 
summer  after,  came  one  from  Aranda  de  Duero,  in 
Spain  —  always  giving  accounts  of  battles  ;  and  it  was 


80  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

clear  that  he  was  getting  fond  of  his  profession.  He 
had  become  first  a  corporal,  then  a  sergeant,  and  had 
gained  the  cross  of  honor;  and  he  thanked  me  anew 
for  having  taught  him  to  write,  which,  he  said,  had 
helped  him  on  very  much,  more  than  any  action  in 
the  field  would  have  done. 

"  At  last,  after  he  had  been  gone  about  two  years, 
one  evening,  when  I  was  keeping  school  as  usual,  in 
came  one  of  the  children,  and  began  whispering  some- 
thing to  his  neighbor,  who  passed  it  on  to  the  next, 
until  it  ran  round  the  whole  school ;  and,  before  I  could 
stop  them,  they  had  all  jumped  up  and  run  out,  cry- 
ing, '  Toniotto  is  come  back  !  Let's  go  and  see  To- 
niotto/  So  I  followed  too,  and  went  straight  to  his 
father's  ;  and  there,  sure  enough,  I  found  him,  looking 
so  happy  and  triumphant,  I  never  saw  tlie  like !  — 
and  sitting  between  his  father  on  one  side  and  Maria 
on  the  other,  who  was  crying  and  sobbing  like  a 
scolded  child,  and  not  able  to  speak  a  word ;  and 
there  were  the  brothers  of  both  families,  and  the  re- 
lations, and  all  come  to  see  him  and  make  much  of 
him.  He  started  up  as  soon  as  he  saw  me,  and 
threw  his  arms  round  iny  neck ;  and  I  learned  shortly, 
that  his  regiment  having  to  pass  through  Piedmont, 
on  its  way  from  Spain  to  join  the  army  in  Italy,  he 
had  obtained  three  days'  leave  to  come  and  see  his 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STOET.  81 

parents,  and  .  .  .  Here  he  seized  Maria's  hand,  and 
covered  it  with  kisses,  with  an  air  of  gallantry  and 
confidence  which  he  certainly  had  not  when  he  went 
away,  and  which  made  me  fear  that  he  was  quite 
changed  from  what  he  used  to  be.  But  I  saw  and 
talked  with  him  a  good  deal  during  the  three  days 
he  staid  with  us;  and  there  is  no  telling  what  an 
excellent,  good,  and  manly  fellow  he  had  become  in 
the  short  time  he  had  been  away.  And  if  his  love 
was  a  little  changed  in  its  nature,  and  partook  of  his 
own  strengthened  character,  it  was  not  less  hearty 
and  true.  He  no  longer  made  idle  complaints  and 
lamentations  over  his  lot,  but  -looked  hopefully  to  the 
end,  and  talked  of  his  chances  of  marrying.  He 
said,  that  if  he  went  on  as  well  as  he  had  begun, 
thanks  to  his  having  some  education,  he  had  great 
hopes  of  one  day  or  other  becoming  an  officer,  when 
there  would  be  no  such  great  difficulty  in  getting  per- 
mission to  marry ;  or  if  that  were  refused  him,  he 
could  leave  the  service.  *  So  much  the  more,'  he 
added,  smiling,  (  that  every  one  gets  his  share  of 
hard  knocks  ;  and  I  have  had  mine,  though  I  have 
not  mentioned  them  in  my  letters ;  and  if  I  get  a  few 
more,  at  five  and  twenty  I  shall  be  amongst  the  vet- 
erans, and  get  sent,  as  they  say,  back  to  my  fireside.' 
"Well !  those  three  days  were  days  of  rejoicing  to  alj 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STOR 

the  village,  and  holidays  at  school,  am  v  ei  j  the 
happiest,  I  do  believe,  in  Maria's  whole  ILe.  When 
he  went  away,  he  left  three  louis-d'ors  for  his  father, 
one  for  his  brother,  who  was  a  pupil  of  mine,  and  a 
handsome  handkerchief  and  a  ring  for  Maria;  and 
when  he  got  to  Venice,  he  sent  her,  in  a  letter,  a 
little  gold  chain,  which  never  after  left  the  girl's  neck 

"  Then  came  the  war  with  Austria,  the  third  in 
which  Toniotto  had  been  engaged;  and  in  this  he  got 
both  promotion  and  wounds,  especially  one  bad  cut  in 
his  head,  which  we  heard  of,  and  which  made  Maria 
very  uneasy;  but  he  got  well  of  it,  and  was  after- 
wards exchanged  into  the  Imperial  Guard.  When 
he  wrote  this  to  us,  he  was  so  full  of  delight  he  could 
not  have  said  more  if  he  had  been  made  a  field- 
marshal.  At  the  peace,  his  regiment  went  to  Paris ; 
and  whilst  there,  he  wrote  often,  and  sent  some  little 
trifle  or  other  as  a  present  to  Maria,  and  talked  more 
and  more  of  his  hopes  of  being  an  officer,  and  then  — 
then  would  be  happiness. 

"  Two  more  years  passed  thus,  and  then  war  with 
Russia  was  declared,  and  Toniotto  set  off  more  full 
of  spirits  and  hope  than  ever,  and  wrote,  quite  elated, 
from  Smolensko,  of  his  having  become  adjutant,  (sub- 
official,)  an  1  having  got  the  cross  of  the  iron  crown ; 
and  there  was  not  a  doubt  of  his  being  made  an 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  83 

officer  at  the  end  of  this  campaign.  It  was  generally 
supposed,  too,  that  this  would  be  the  last  the  em- 
peror would  undertake :  be  that  as  it  might,  so  as  he 
got  his  commission,  it  would  be  all  right  and  well. 
So  now  every  one  began  to  envy  Maria,  who  had 
formerly  been  an  object  of  pity  among  her  companions, 
as  fated  to  die  an  old  maid ;  and  I  forgot  to  mention 
that  the  little  Marietta  herself  had  learned  to  write  very 
nicely,  and  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  her  future 
husband,  and  all  seemed  going  on  as  happily  as 
possible. 

"  But  with  the  winter  came  rumors  of  the  total  de- 
struction of  the  French  army ;  and  on  going  to  town 
to  make  inquiry,  I  found  this  report  was  not  far  from 
the  truth.  No  more  letters  were  received,  cither  from 
Toniotto  or  any  one  else,  until  at  last,  late  in  the 
year,  some  Piedmontese  soldiers  of  the  Imperial  Guard 
wrote  that  he  had  been  amongst  the  killed  at  the  ter- 
rible passage  of  the  Beresina.  Just  imagine  the  blow 
this  was  to  the  old  father  and  his  younger  son,  who 
looked  up  to  his  Toniotto  with  the  greatest  affec- 
tion —  above  all,  to  the  miserable  Maria !  I  will  not 
attempt  to  describe  her  sufferings,  or  the  illness  which 
brought  her  to  death's  door;  or  the  lamentations  and 
despair  of  her  parents  and  brothers,  one  of  whom, 
just  at  this  time,  was  carried  off  by  the  conscription 


84  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STOUT. 

into  Germany ;  the  other,  a  few  months  after,  to 
France  ;  for  the  levies  then  succeed  each  other  rapidly. 
Why  should  I  dwell  upon  this  time  ?  When  once 
misfortunes  begin  in  a  family,  they  crowd  upon  each 
other  in  a  manner  that  appalls  even  the  indifferent ! 
Maria's  two  brothers  were  killed,  one  at  Hanau,  the 
other  under  the  walls  of  Paris,  by  the  last  random 
shot,  as  it  were,  of  this  war,  which  was  so  little  and 
so  much  to  us.  The  only  child  remaining  to  console 
the  poor,  broken-down  parents,  half  stupefied  by  sor- 
row, was  their  daughter,  to  whom  the  duty  of  support- 
ing them  in  their  old  age,  and  the  special  providence 
of  God,  which  reserved  her  for  other  trials,  gave 
strength  to  survive. 

"  The  poor  girl  was  then  little  more  than  two  and 
twenty,  and  her  beauty  had  become  so  angelic,  from 
her  sufferings,  which  she  bore  like  an  angel,  that  I 
never  saw  any  thing  resembling  it.  Sorrow  like  this 
exalts  and  ennobles  the  vulgarest  person ;  but,  some- 
how, I  never  could  regard  her  as  a  little  country  girl  : 
she  seemed  quite  a  lady,  and  latterly,  indeed,  more 
like  a  saint  or  angel.  From  that  time  forward,  I 
never  saw  her  laugh  again ;  not  that  there  was  any 
thing  of  harshness  or  disdain  in  her  melancholy  coun- 
tenance, but  a  simple,  resigned  composure,  which  waa 
peculiar  to  herself. 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY  85 

"  In  the  year  1814,  when  our  princes  and  the  fe\V 
remnants  of  our  soldiers  of  the  French  army  returned, 
we  heard  the  last  particulars  of  Toniotto,  who,  during 
that  awful  retreat,  had  been  one  of  the  few  who  kept 
up  his  courage  unshaken.  "When  all  around  him  were 
dying  of  cold,  he  used  to  say  he  wore  on  his  heart 
two  things  that  would  keep  him  warm,  though  all  the 
s»ows  of  Russia  were  heaped  on  them.  The  men 
'ould  not  tell  us,  for.  certain,  whether  he  had  been 
jaade  an  officer :  all  they  knew  was,  that  he  marched 
at  the  head  of  the  company,  and  thus  they  arrived 
at  that  terrible  bridge,  which  he  had  been  the  first 
to  cross,  and,  rushing  like  a  lion  upon  the  enemy, 
received  a  ball  in  his  heart,  and  fell  dead  on  the  spot. 

"  '  Poor  Toniotto  ! '  said  they  ;  '  he  was  beloved  by 
the  whole  regiment,  and  was  the  pride  of  all.  the 
Piedmontese  in  the  army/ 

"  '  Poor  Maria ! '  thought  I.  '  Far  more  are  you 
to  be  pitied  for  having  to  live  on  through  all  this.' 
But  I  did  not  yet  know  all  her  trials. 

"  Three  years  had  passed  since  Toniotto's  death, 
and  I  had  observed  for  some  time  that  her  counte- 
nance, usually  so  calm  and  sad,  now  wore  an  anxious 
and  troubled  look.  I  often  threw  myself  in  her  way 
to  give  her  the  opportunity  of  telling  me,  if  she  wished 
it,  any  thing  she  had  on  her  mind ;  but  I  asked  ha* 


86  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

no  questions,  and  she  volunteered  nothing.  At  last, 
one  day,  when  I  happened  to  overtake  her  walking, 
and  accompanied  her  a  little  way,  she  seemed  so  much 
more  depressed  and  agitated  than  I  had  ever  seen 
her,  that,  after  a  long  silence,  I  could  not  help  ex- 
claiming, '  My  poor  Maria ! '  and  instantly  she  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears,  and  seemed  ready  to  throw 
herself  into  my  arms ;  but  she  stopped,  hid  her  face 
in  both  her  hands,  and  sobbed  out,  i  O  master,  they 
want  me  to  marry  ! ' 

"I  must  confess  the  thought  of  such  a  thing  had 
never  once  entered  into  my  mind,  any  more  than  if 
it  had  been  a  crime  or  an  impossibility.  But  now 
these  few  simple  words  were  like  a  flash  of  light 
opening  a  new  view  to  me ;  and  in  a  moment  I  saw 
how  naturally  the  idea  had  arisen,  and  what  would  be 
the  end  of  it.  I  could  not  find  a  word  to  say,  except 
to  repeat, '  Poor  Maria ! '  but  I  stopped,  and  made  the 
girl  sit  down,  and  waited  till  she  had  recovered  her- 
self a  little,  and  till  her  sobs  had  ceased. 

"  '  And  why  should  you  not  marry,  my  dear  Maria  ? 
If  it  will  be  a  consolation  and  happiness  to  your  old 
and  infirm  parents,  who  want  this  support  to  their 
declining  years,  I  am  sure  you  will  not  oppose  their 
wishes.  For  this  you  have  survived ;  for  this  you  have 
struggled  with  and  overcome  your  grief,  instead  of 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  87 

g'ving  way  to  it  weakly.  That  was  the  hardest  effort 
and  the  greatest  sacrifice.  -Do  not  make  it  useless, 
and  lose  the  fruit  of  it,  by  refusing  to  endure  this 
much  more.  My  dear,  good,  dutiful  Maria,  I  know 
you  will,  like  a  brave,  devoted  girl,  fulfil  your  whole 
duty  on  earth.  Pay  your  whole  debt,  and  when  this 
life  is  over,  father,  mother,  brothers,  husband,  all  will 
lead  you  to  join  your  lover  in  that  heaven  where  all 
loves  are  united  and  absorbed  in  one  immense,  eternal, 
universal  .  .  . 

" l  O  Maria,  they  are  not  empty,  idle  words,  those 
words  of  God  himself,  that  we  are  placed  here  to 
suffer.  No  one  can  do  his  whole  duty  here  without 
having  to  suffer  more  or  less,  and  those  whose  lot 
carries  with  it  the  most  suffering  may  be  looked  upon 
as  the  beloved  children  of  the  Father,  to  whom  the 
highest  rewards  are  destined.' 

"  I  spoke  thus  interruptedly,  holding  the  hand  of 
the  poor  girl,  who  lifted  her  head  slowly,  till  her  eyes 
were  raised  to  heaven,  and  the  former  placid,  serene 
expression  returned  to  her  countenance.  At  last,  she 
said,  *  I  knew  it  would  be  so ;  I  knew  you,  too,  would 
wish  it.'  We  rose,  and  returned  home  together  in 
silence. 

"  Her  father  and  mother  were  indeed  at  this  time 
in  a  sad  condition.  Always  poor,  they  had  become 


88  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

more  and  more  so  as  they  grew  unfit  for  daily  labor. 
They  were  now  hardly  able  to  cultivate  their  own 
little  bit  of  ground  to  any  advantage ;  and  though 
Maria  worked  hard,  and  did  her  very  best  to  conceal 
the  poverty  into  which  they  had  fallen,  it  grew  worse 
every  day,  and  they  were  in  absolute  want.  I  was 
astonished  at  myself  for  never  having  thought  before 
how  this  must  be ;  and  now  I  would  willingly  have 
shared  my  bread  with  this  poor  family,  if  by  that 
means  I  could  secure  her  liberty  to  Maria.  But  I 
might  die  any  day ;  and  God  knows  how  much  I 
then  regretted  that  I  had  never  been  a  saving  man, 
and  had  not  laid  by  any  portion  of  my  salary  as 
schoolmaster  or  the  pension  I  got  from  my  convent. 
But  the  more  I  thought  on  the  matter,  the  less  help 
I  saw  for  it,  and  it  was  plain  Maria  was  making  up 
her  mind  to  it.  So,  at  last,  from  among  the  many 
who  had  made  her  offers  from  time  to  time,  she  chose 
one,  named  Francesco,  a  worthy  young  man,  and  an 
intimate  friend  of  Toniotto's  when  they  were  both 
boys.  He  was  one  of  the  few  who  had  not  been 
carried  away  from  us  by  the  conscription  during  the 
war.  He  had  never  left  his  home,  and  had  long 
loved  Maria ;  and  though  he  well  knew  she  did  not 
return  his  love,  and  gave  him  no  hope,  yet  he  never 
would  take  any  one  else  to  wife. 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  8* 

"  Maria  now  told  him  frankly  what  were  her  reasons 
for  marrying,  and  that  he  well  knew  she  never  could 
love  any  one  as  she  had  loved  Toniotto,  nor  ever  for- 
get him ;  but  that  if  he  would  take  her  as  a  widow, 
who  is  allowed  still  to  love  the  memory  of  her  first 
husband,  she  would  be  a  good  wife  to  him,  and  would 
love  him  better  than  any  living  creature.  The  honest 
fellow,  who  hoped  for  nothing  more,  accepted  joyfully, 
and  declared  he  was  the  happiest  of  men  :  nay, 
more ;  upon  her  offering  to  leave  off  the  little  chain 
Toniotto  had  sent  her,  if  he  wished  it,  he  begged  her 
to  continue  wearing  it.  And  so  the  marriage  took 
place  without  any  great  to-do ;  and  the  money  which 
would  otherwise  have  gone  in  a  dinner  and  ball, 
Francesco  (who  was  rich,  and  had  no  relations  but 
his  mother)  laid  out  half  in  repairing  his  own  house, 
and  furnishing  a  nice  room  for  the  old  couple,  whom 
he  took  home  the  very  day  of  the  wedding ;  and  the 
other  half  he  gave  to  me  and  to  the  curate  of  the 
parish,  to  distribute  amongst  the  poor.  So  it  was  a 
day  of  joy  and  blessing  to  all,  but  in  a  quiet  way, 
and  quite  different  from  most  wedding  days. 

"  I   need   not   tell    you   that   the   families  went  on 

comfortably  together ;    for   you    may  judge    from    the 

fact  of  their  all  joining  thus,  and  not  fearing  to  live 

so  many  under  one  roof,  that  they  were  all  good  sort 

8* 


90  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY 

of  people.  Just  as  the  liking  to  live  separate,  and 
not  being  able  to  agree  to  eat  out  of  the  same  dish, 
is  a  proof  that  they  have  cold  hearts,  and  value  their 
own  independence,  as  they  call  it,  —  that  is,  their  own 
selfuh  enjoyment,  —  more  than  the  companionship  and 
love  of  others. 

"  Before  the  year  was  out,  the  family  was  increased 
by  a  little  boy,  whom  they  all  agreed  to  call  Toni- 
otto  ;  and  eighteen  months  after  there  came  another : 
and  Maria's  face  now  wore  not  only  its  old,  placid, 
gentle  expression,  but  sometimes  the  sweetest  of  smiles 
for  her  husband  and  children.  She  was  as  beautiful 
as  ever,  though  she  was  now  seven  or  eight  and 
twenty ;  and  when  I  saw  her  of  an  evening  sitting 
there  with  the  old  folks,  and  children,  and  her  hus- 
band, all  hanging  upon  her  glance,  I  often  thought  she 
was  fit  to  be  the  Madonna  in  a  holy  family  of  Raphael. 

"  But  this  calm  was  not  to  last  long. 

"  One  evening,  towards  nightfall,  I  was  walking  up 
and  down  before  my  door,  saying  my  Breviary  aloud, 
as  I  was  wont  to  do,  when  I  heard  a  footstep  behind 
me,  and  an  exclamation  of  t  Dear  master ! '  and  then 
was  almost  lifted  off  my  feet  by  a  sudden  embrace. 
I  seemed  to  know  the  voice,  and  turning  my  head 
round  so  that  my  face  nearly  touched  his,  I  saw  and 
instantly  recognized,  in  the  twilight,  Toniotto !  If  I 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  91 

had  ever  believed  in  ghosts,  I  should  certainly  have 
\Aought  he  was  one,  come  to  reproach  me  for  the 
part  I  had  taken  in  the  marriage  of  Maria.  And,  to 
tell  the  truth,  the  idea,  for  one  moment,  did  cross  my 
mind ;  and  then  the  fearful  reality  came  upon  me  as 
not  less  terrible  than  a  supernatural  apparition  would 
have  been.  The  only  thing  I  could  do  or  think  of 
was  to  seize  Toniotto  by  the  arm,  and  drag  him  into 
the  house  with  me.  He  saw  the  effect  he  had  pro- 
duced on  me,  and  with  a  changed  countenance  and 
trembling  voice,  said,  i  My  father  ?  .  .  .  .  my  broth- 
er ?'  — '  Alive  and  well,'  said  I,  '  but  the  old  woman 
must  be  prepared  for  the  joyful  shock  of  seeing  you.' 

"  <  And  Maria  ?  ' 

" l  Both  her  brothers  were  killed  in  battle  a  short 
time  after  we  heard  of  your  death.' 

"  <  But  Maria  ? ' 

"  *  She  is  living.'  And  there  was  a  silence  for 
about  two  minutes.  I  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

" '  How  did  it  happen  that  you  never  wrote  to  us 
for  these  six  years  past  ? ' 

" *  I  did  write  several  times,  but  greatly  feared  you 
would  not  receive  my  letters  in  the  early  part  of  the 
time.  You  have  heard  from  me  during  the.  last  two 
years  ? ' 

ut  Never  once  —  and  for  these  two  years ' 


92  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

"  He  interruoted  me. 

"  *  So  you  have  believed  me  to  be  dead  for  six 
years  ?  —  a  thing  I  often  dreaded  would  happen  ;  and 
then  a  thought  came  across  me,  which  I  drove  away, 
as  sent  by  the  devil  to  make  me  die  of  despair !  O, 
and  I  arrived  just  now  so  full  of  joy !  —  as  if  one's 
return  could  ever  be  joyous  and  happy  after  an  ab- 
sence of  ten  years  !  Poor  Giovanni !  —  poor  Filip- 
po  !  —  poor  dear  Maria ! ' 

" '  Maria/  I  began,  hoping  he  would  question  me ; 
but  he  spoke  not  a  word,  and  to  save  my  life  I  could 
not  have  finished  my  sentence,  and  said,  '  Maria  is  no 
longer  yours.'  At  last  he  resumed. 

" '  If  you  had  received  my  letters  two  years 
ago ' 

"  They  would  have  come  too  late  ; '  and  I  breathed 
more  freely  now  that  it  was  out ;  but  raising  my  eyes 
to  his  face,  I  found  it  so  altered,  and  bearing  such 
marks  of  suffering,  past  and  present,  that  I  shuddered 
to  see  it. 

"  We  were  again  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  Then 
he  got  up,  gave  himself  a  shake,  and  raising  his  head, 
said,  *  Let's  go  and  see  my  father,  and  then ' 

"  I  followed  instantly,  and  we  went  together  to  his 
home. 
•    "  I  need  not  tell  you  what  a  joyful  and  affectionate 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  93 

greeting  he  had  from  his  father  and  brother,  nor  how 
the  tears  rained  down  the  toil-worn  face  of  the  sol- 
dier when  their  tenderness  had  opened  his  heart.  I 
went  from  them  to  Francesco,  who  took  it  upon  him- 
self to  break  the  news  to  Maria.  In  what  manner 
he  did  so  I  never  knew ;  it  remained  a  secret  be- 
tween them,  and  they  never  spoke  of  it.  All  I  know 
is,  that  two  days  after,  at  their  own  request,  I  took 
Toniotto  to  see  them.  Francesco  was  the  most  agi- 
tated of  the  three.  Maria  came  forward  with  an 
angelic  smile,  though  her  countenance  was  not  as 
calm  as  usual,  and,  taking  his  hand,  said,  '  God  be 
praised !  Who  ever  expected  to  see  you  again,  ex- 
cept in  heaven  ?  There  we  always  trusted  we  might 
meet  you  again  —  Francesco  and  I.'  The  soldier's 
knees  trembled  visibly,  and  he  was  unable  to  speak  a 
word ;  but  he  took  both  her  hand  and  Francesco's, 
and,  holding  them  both  together  between  his,  raised 
them  to  his  lips  and  kissed  them.  Then  suddenly 
perceiving  the  two  children,  he  dropped  their  hands, 
hurried  to  them,  kissed  and  embraced  them  over  and 
over  again  eagerly,  and  then,  sitting  down,  took  the 
eldest  on  his  knee.  The  child  struggled  to  get  away, 
and  Maria  calling  to  him,  reproachfully,  '  Toniotto ! ' 
the  soldier  thought  at  first  she  was  addressing  him ; 
and  then  finding  they  had  named  the  boy  after  him, 


94  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

he  again  seized  and  kissed  him,  hiding  his  face  in  the 
child's  curly  hair  to  conceal  the  tears  which  burst  forth. 
"  By  little  and  little,  they  all  became  composed ; 
and  the  conversation  turning  upon  Toniotto's  adven- 
tures, Francesco  inquired  how  he  had  managed  to 
escape  after  that  wound  we  heard  he  had  received  at 
the  passage  of  the  Beresina.  Toniotto  told  his  story 
briefly  and  simply.  The  ball  had  struck  him  on  the 
shoulder,  which  was  broken  by  it,  and  he  fell  stunned 
by  the  blow,  and  remained  senseless  till  he  was 
roused  by  soldiers  of  the  enemy  stripping  him,  as 
they  had  already  done  by  the  other  corpses.  At  this 
moment,  a  young  officer,  happening  to  pass  by,  took 
compassion  on  him,  had  him  carried  to  a  hospital, 
where  his  wounds  were  looked  to,  and  gave  him  back, 
certainly  not  all  his  property,  but  his  two  crosses, 
which  ever  since  that  time  he  had  worn  attached  to 
his  shirt,  or  in  some  other  place  where  they  could  be 
hidden.  After  some  months,  being  pretty  well  recov- 
ered, and  the  fine  season  being  come,  he  was  sent 
along  with  a  column  of  prisoners  to  retrace  the  dreary 
road  he  had  traversed  with  the  flying  army,  and  re- 
turned to  Moscow ;  and  thence  they  were  marched  oft* 
as  far  again,  and  more,  to  the  frontier  of  Siberia. 
There  the  column  was  disbanded,  and  the  prisoners 
dispersed  here  and  there,  with  only  a  few  sous  tx> 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  95 

keep  them  till  they  could  get  employment,  which  they 
all  did  in  one  way  or  other.  He  went  into  service 
as  gardener  to  a  gentleman  of  that  country,  and  after- 
wards became  bailiff  to  his  estate ;  and  his  master, 
having  taken  a  liking  to  him,  was  much  disappointed 
when,  at  the  beginning  of  1815,  the  prisoners  were 
all  discharged :  and,  as  a  counter  order  arrived  very 
shortly  after,  on  account  of  the  war  with  France 
breaking  out  anew,  his  master  took  immediate  advan- 
tage of  it,  sent  after  him,  overtook  him  before  he 
could  get  out  of  the  country,  and  brought  him  back 
to  the  castle.  From  that  time,  he  felt  sure  that  his 
letters  were  intercepted,  and  the  successful  battles  that 
ensued  were  concealed  from  him.  At  last,  having  ac- 
cidentally heard  something  of  the  state  of  affairs,  he 
made  his  escape,  and  put  himself  under  the  protection 
of  the  governor  of  the  nearest  town. 

"  Here  he  paused ;  and  I  guessed  that  it  was  at  this 
time  he  had  written  the  letters  which  he  had  reason 
to  hope  would  reach  their  destination. 

"  What  with  doubts  and  delays  on  the  part  of  the 
governor,  he  continued,  who  would  do  nothing  till  he 
got  orders,  he  was  detained  a  whole  year  at  this  town, 
and  it  was  now  six  months  since  he  had  got  leave  to 
depart.  But  in  that  twelvemonth  he  had  spent  all 
his  little  savings,  and  left  his  prison  with  so  little  ID 


96  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

his  pocket,  that  he  was  forced  to  make  the  journey 
on  foot ;  and  from  the  pains  his  wounds  gave  him,  he 
had  been  frequently  obliged  to  stop  on  his  road,  and 
sometimes  to  beg. 

"  Here  his  voice  faltered,  and  Maria  seemed  so 
much  affected,  that  I  thought  it  best  to  put  an  end 
to  the  visit.  So  I  rose,  and  taking  leave  of  the  fam- 
ily, Toniotto  and  I  walked  away  together. 

"  This  was  the  only  time  I  ever  saw  these  two 
unhappy  lovers  give  way  to  their  feelings ;  and  even 
then  but  in  a  slight  degree.  Unhappy  they  were, 
doubtless ;  but  both  bore  their  sorrow  with  a  degree 
of  fortitude,  which  might  shame  many  a  philosopher 
who  has  written  folios  upon  patience ;  and  many  fine 
people,  too,  who  make  their  quality  and  education  an 
excuse  for  what  they  call  their  l  sensibility,'  but  which 
is,  in  fact,  weakly  yielding  to  grief  instead  of  endur- 
ing it,  as  they  ought,  with  courage.  They  call  these 
poor  folk  coarse  and  insensible,  not  because  they  feel 
less,  but  because  they  bear  it  better.  The  truth  is, 
that  born  and  bred  all  to  more  or  less  of  hardship 
and  want,  and  accustomed  to  see  happiness  which  they 
never  expect  to  attain,  the  poor  become  really  and 
truly  imbued  with  the  principle  that  we  are  placed 
here  below  to  work  and  to  suffer ;  whereas  your  gen- 
tlefolks hear  it  preached  in  sermons,  and  read  it 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  97 

sometimes  in  books,  but  it  does  not  come  home  to 
you;  and  you  live,  —  forgive  me  for  saying  so, — and 
struggle  and  toil,  as  if  the  enjoyments  you  crave 
were  your  due,  and  look  upon  it  as  a  cruel  injustice 
if  they  are  withheld,  and  worse,  if  actual  suffering  is 
imposed  on  you.  It  is  the  indulgence  of  this  feeling 
which  makes  misfortune  so  hard  to  be  borne,  and 
which  causes  some  to  become  desperate  under  it,  and 
others  to  descend  to  any  baseness  to  avoid  it.  But 
perhaps  I  am  wrong ;  I  have  not  had  much  to  do  with 
the  higher  classes.  I  only  wish  you  to  understand 
that  it  did  not  follow  that  these  poor  things  felt  less 
because  they  made  no  display  of  their  feelings.  I 
have  told  you  that  what  Maria  had  done  was  entirely 
from  a  sense  of  duty,  which  I  had  myself  urged  upon 
her  perhaps  too  strongly :  you  may  judge,  therefore, 
that  she  followed  it  up,  now  that  her  duty  had  be- 
come still  more  definite. 

"  I  do  not  mean  the  mere  duty  of  being  faithful  to 
her  husband  in  thought  and  deed,  but  of  the  far  more 
difficult  one  of  continuing  cheerful,  and  making  him 
happy,  and,  as  much  as  in  her  lay,  of  being  happy 
herself,  and  not  allowing  herself  to  think  of  what 
might  have  been.  And  as  to  Toniotto,  I  knew  his 
thorough  goodness  from  his  childhood.  Certainly,  in 
the  first  fire  of  youth,  he  had  yielded  to  the  temptation 


98  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STOUT. 

of  choosing  an  evil  for  himself,  and  doing  wilfully 
wrong  by  joining  the  bandits  of  Majino,  to  avoid  an 
evil  imposed  upon  him  by  Providence.  But  now  his 
long  and  severe  experience  of  a  military  life  had  ac- 
customed him  to  subordination,  and  strengthened  him 
against  misfortune ;  so  that  I  would  bet  all  I  am 
worth  he  never  had  a  rebellious  thought  in  his  heart. 
I  have  always  considered  a  soldier's  life  in  time  of 
war  to  be  the  best  and  noblest  education  a  man  can 
have.  I  never  knew  one  return  otherwise  than  im- 
proved by  it.  But  many  think  differently,  and,  indeed, 
look  upon  all  old  soldiers  as  so  many  reprobates. 
Opinions  are  various ;  and  perhaps  I  formed  mine 
principally  from  seeing  the  frank,  manly  bearing  of 
this  poor  Toniotto  under  his  grief.  Never  a  word  of 
spite,  or  envy,  or  any  thing  like  a  sneer  at  the  wor- 
thy Francesco.  He  was  always  the  first  to  take  his 
part,  when  others  quizzed  or  made  fun  of  him,  be- 
cause they  had  been  in  the  wars,  and  seen  more  of 
the  world  than  he.  Francesco,  who  had  always  been 
his  friend,  now  treated  him  like  a  brother,  and  was 
always  the  one  to  seek  him  out  and  ask  him  home, 
and  would  have  been  satisfied  that  he  should  stay 
there  all  day  if  he  had  liked  it.  But  Toniotto  seldom 
went  there,  except  sometimes  of  an  evening  with 
Francesco,  and  then  staid  but  a  short  time,  and  always 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STOKT.  93 

had  one  of  the  children  in  his  arms ;  and  Maria  and 
he  talked  together  so  simply  and  naturally,  that  every 
body,  Francesco  above  all,  thought  they  had  forgotten 
the  past.  Nay,  I  almost  began  to  think  so  myself. 

"  One  day,  however,  while  I  was  wandering  about 
upon  the  hills,  climbing  up  through  a  grove  of  chest- 
nuts, I  came  out  upon  a  vineyard  belonging  to  the 
father  of  Toniotto,  and  there  I  saw  him,  thinking  him- 
self alone  in  this  out  of  the  way  place,  sitting  with 
his  hoe  between  his  legs,  his  hands  clasped  upon  the 
handle,  and  his  face  resting  upon  them.  I  stood  a 
moment  looking  at  him,  and  then,  thinking  how  cheer- 
fully he  generally  seemed  to  take  to  his  work,  I  felt 
ashamed,  as  if  I  had  stolen  upon  him  to  surprise  his 
secret,  and  turned,  hoping  to  get  away  unperceived. 
But  in  my  haste  I  made  a  rustling  among  the  branches, 
and  the  noise  rousing  him,  he  looked  up,  and  called 
me  by  name;  so  I  turned  back. 

" '  You  seem  tired,  Toniotto,'  said  I. 

"  '  Yes,  tired  enough.  I  have  almost  forgotten  my 
old  trade  of  a  vine  dresser,  you  see,  after  following 
another  so  long.  But  I  sliall  soon  be  up  to  it  again/ 

"  I  was  delighted,  and  so  I  think  was  he,  to  have 
Lit  upon  a  topic  of  conversation ;  and  nothing  gives 
me  so  much  to  say  on  one  subject  as  the  wish  to  avoid 
Borne  other. 


100  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

" '  But,'  said  I,  '  I  should  have  thought  you  had 
had  time  to  learn  it  afresh  away  in  Siberia,  with  that 
master  of  yours,  who  was  such  a  tyrant  as  to  inter- 
cept your  letters.' 

"  Here  it  struck  me  that  I  was  approaching  too 
near  the  subject  we  were  both  trying  to  keep  away 
from.  He  made  no  answer. 

"( Perhaps  there  are  no  vines  in  that  country  — 
hey?' 

"  '  No,'  said  Toniotto  ;  and  the  conversation  dropped 
again.  This  time  I  thought  I  had  kept  away  too  much. 

"  '  Well,  Toniotto,'  said  I,  *  you  have  done  your  duty 
in  your  different  stations.  You  were  a  good  son  and 
a  good  soldier,  and  now  you  will  be  a  good  laborer 
and  a  good  son  once  more.'  This  time  I  had  hit  the 
mark ;  Toniotto  answered  in  his  old  manner,  — 

"  *  That's  true,  master,  that's  true.  We  must  do  the 
work  it  pleases  God  to  give  us,  and  take  what  he 
sends  —  now  rain,  now  shine ;  now  a  victory,  now 
a  defeat;  sometimes  promotion  and  a  cross  at  the 
button  hole;  sometimes  a  shot  in  the  heart.  And  it 
is  the  same  here,  too ;  sometimes  a  good  year,  and 
sometimes  a  bad ;  a  fine  harvest  and  vintage,  or 
storms  and  dearth.  And  so  every  day  I  find  some 
likeness  between  the  two  ways  of  life.' 

"'You  are  right;    there  is  a  resemblance;  and  I 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY.  101 

have  often  heard  say,  that  retired  soldiers  make  tha 
best  laborers.  But  you  were  no  longer  a  soldier ;  and, 
by  the  bye,  you  wanted  but  little  of  being  made  an 
officer.  If  it  had  not  been  for  your  wound,  you  would 
have  been  sure  of  a  commission,  would  you  not  ? ' 

" '  0,  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  wound  ! '  he  began, 
and  stopped  suddenly.  I  had  blundered  on  awkwardly 
enough ;  but  now  that  I  had  got  so  far,  I  determined 
to  seize  an  opportunity  I  had  long  wished  for. 

" ( And  do  you  never  regret  your  profession  ? '  I 
continued ;  ( with  the  promotion  you  have  got  already, 
I  should  have  thought  you  might  return  to  it  with 
advantage/ 

"  Now  we  had  got  upon  smooth  ground ;  and  he 
answered  frankly  that  he  had  thought  about  it,  and 
had  made  inquiries,  and  taken  advice  upon  the  sub- 
ject ;  but  he  was  told  it  was  very  difficult,  and  that 
he  was  not  likely  to  succeed  in  reentering  the  army, 
except  in  the  ranks.  Certainly  he  would  stand  a 
good  chance  of  soon  becoming  a  sergeant,  and  per- 
haps he  might  ultimately  get  a  commission.  But,  to 
tell  the  truth,  he  did  not  feel  the  heart  to  start  in 
life  a  second  time.  If  there  were  a  war,  indeed,  he 
might  probably  be  reinstated  in  the  grade  he  had 
lost,  and  at  any  rate  he  should  have  the  satisfaction 
of  serving  his  king  and  country.  But  in  peace  a 
9» 


102  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

military  life  was  quite  another  thing,  and  he  had  ftrond 
it  very  wearisome  being  in  garrison  at  Paris  when 
he  was  in  the  Imperial  Guard.  On  the  whole,  he 
thought  as  it  had  been  God's  will  to  restore  him  to 
his  native  place  and  to  his  old  father,  it  was  his  will 
he  should  stay  and  pass  the  rest  of  his  life  with  him. 
Not  that  he  was  necessary  to  his  father 

"  Here  he  paused,  as  if  he  were  overwhelmed  with 
sad  thoughts ;  and  finished  by  saying,  — 

" ' It  is  a  hard  case,  master,  at  thirty  years  of  age 
to  see  all  one's  life  rubbed  out,  as  it  were,  and  find 
nothing  of  it  left !  At  thirty,  one  can't  begin  life 
again.' 

"  This  was  true.  I  could  not  deny  it,  and  I  did 
not  like  to  assent  to  it ;  so  I  turned  to  resume  my 
walk.  He  took  me  by  the  hand  —  whether  to  shake 
it,  or  to  stop  me,  I  do  not  know ;  but,  shouldering  his 
hoe,  he  accompanied  me  home. 

"  From  that  time  forward  he  came  much  oftener 
to  see  me ;  and  as  we  had  struck  upon  the  right 
chord,  we  got  on  harmoniously  together.  Although  he 
was  rough,  and  had  not  much  book  learning,  there  is 
no  saying  how  much  the  education  of  circumstances 
and  active  life  had  done  towards  forming  his  mind. 
I  never  found  any  one,  in  spite  of  the  difference  of 
age  and  orofession,  whose  society  suited  me  better 


103 


than  his.  Poor  Toniotto!  Those  two  remarks  he 
had  made,  that  he  was  necessary  to  nobody,  and  that 
he  could  not  begin  life  anew  at  thirty,  weighed  on 
my  mind ;  and  all  the  more,  that  I  had  observed  it 
myself  of  other  conscripts.  Those  who  came  back  at 
five  and  twenty  set  to  easily  and  resumed  their  coun- 
try life,  and  thought  no  more  of  the  past;  but  those 
who  had  seen  ten  or  twelve  years'  service  could  not 
adapt  themselves  to  the  change.  Some  clung  to  their 
former  life,  and  tried  to  return  to  it,  and  made  idle 
lamentations  over  the  alteration  the  peace  had  made. 
Some  stuck  to  their  attempt,  staid  at  home,  and  died. 
They  did  not  know  of  what,  but  I  verily  believe  of 
mere  weariness  and  ennui.  I  always  advised  these 
men  to  marry,  and  exerted  myself  to  find  matches  for 
them,  without  caring  for  the  jokes  made  against  me 
as  'match-maker  general.'  I  let  them  talk.  This 
was  the  only  way  I  saw  of  giving  these  men  a  new 
interest  in  life.  And  a  wife  (when  you  get  a  good 
one)  and  children  (who  are  all  good)  are  as  balsam 
for  all  wounds,  and  might  bring  a  man  back  from  the 
edge  of  the  grave.  But  what  was  left  for  poor  To- 
niotto to  do  ?  To  tell  the  truth,  the  idea  of  his  mar- 
rying did  occur  to  me,  but  I  never  ventured  to  speak 
of  it  openly.  Once  or  twice,  when  I  alluded  to  it 
distantly,  he  did  not  understand  what  I  was  after 


104  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

and  when  at  last  he  did  see  my  meaning,  he  left  ma 
with  such  an  air  of  ill  humor  and  displeasure  as  I 
never  saw  in  him  before ;  and  it  was  full  a  fortnight 
before  I  could  get  hold  of  him  to  have  a  talk  again. 
"  I  saw  a  change  in  the  poor  fellow  almost  from 
day  to  day ;  the  weaker  he  grew  the  more  he  strug- 
gled against  it,  but  it  was  plain  this  could  not  go  on 
long.  Without  saying  any  thing  about  it  to  him,  I 
went  to  town,  and  having  some  interest  with  the 
colonel  of  a  regiment,  endeavored  to  get  him  to  rein- 
state Toniotto  as  a  non-commissioned  officer ;  he  gave 
me  some  hope,  and  I  returned  to  tell  him  the  news. 
But  he  only  thanked  me  with  a  melancholy  smile, 
and  said  he  had  no  wish  for  it ;  and  I  could  see  that 
his  weak  bodily  state  had  enfeebled  his  mind.  So 
that  even  if  it  had  been  clearly  right  and  necessary 
to  take  this  step,  he  would  hardly  have  had  the  reso- 
lution to  do  it.  I  believe  I  was  the  only  person, 
except,  perhaps,  Maria,  who  perceived  how  he  was 
failing.  He  made  no  complaints,  and  never  left  off 
work  or  spared  himself  at  ah1,  which,  no  doubt,  helped 
to  make  him  worse ;  but  he  never  would  rest,  unless 
now  and  then  when  he  thought  himself  quite  alone, 
as  I  had  surprised  him  that  first  time,  which  I  now 
did  again  sometimes  on  purpose.  Six  months  passed 
away,  and  he  had  become  like  a  skeleton.  The  wintej 


THE   SCHOOLMASTERS    STOKT.  105 


had  set  in,  but   lie    could   not  remain   idle  at 
and  he  went  less  and  less  often  to  Maria's. 

"  As  soon  as  ever  the  snow  was  off  the  ground,  he 
took  his  hoe  and  set  to  work  upon  the  vines  planted 
amongst  the  tufa,  the  hardest  work  of  all.  I  once  got 
the  doctor  to  come  and  see  him,  as  if  by  chance,  and 
he  told  him  he  might  get  well  if  he  would  leave  off 
hard  work,  and  not  overtire  himself.  But  he  answered, 
then,  '  Once  I  get  to  keep  my  bed,  I  shall  never  leave 
it.'  And  so  it  turned  out.  He  caught  a  cold,  or 
something  which  forced  him  to  keep  the  house,  and  the 
fever  soon  became  so  violent  that  he  sent  by  the  same 
messenger  for  the  doctor  and  for  me,  that  I  might 
confess  him. 

"  And  confess  him  I  did,  blessed  be  his  soul  !  and 
afterwards  he  asked  my  leave  to  see  Maria  and  Fran- 
cesco ;  but  on  my  saying,  l  Poor  woman  !  what  good 
would  it  be  ?  '  he  answered,  '  Perhaps  you  are  .right  ; 
yet  take  care  she  does  not  come.  I  know  I  am  a  poor 
weak  creature,  but  I  shan't  want  strength  much  longer.' 

"  He  received  the  sacrament  ;  and  on  the  third  day 
I  gave  him  extreme  unction.  I  found  a  lock  of  Ma- 
ria's hair  hanging  round  his  neck.  *  Take  it  off/  said 
he  ;  t  perhaps  I  have  done  wrorig  in  wearing  it  since  I 
came  home.  This,  and  the  little  book  of  prayers  you 
gave  me  when  I  first  went  away,  have  gone  every  where 


106  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

with  me,  and  helped  to  keep  my  heart  warm  in  Rus- 
sia. Keep  them  and  my.  two  crosses,  for  my  sake.' 

"  He  pulled  the  prayer  book  and  the  crosses  from 
under  his  pillow :  half  an  hour  after  he  became  insen- 
sible, and  so  died  in  about  an  hour  more. 

"  That  was  what  made  "me  leave  that  part  of  the 
country.  I  served  afterwards  as  chaplain  in  the  very 
regiment  into  which  I  had  tried  to  get  Toniotto." 

"  And  what  became  of  Maria  ? "  asked  some  of  the 
audience. 

"  Maria  lived  for  four  years  after  him  ;  and  about 
six  months  ago  I  was  sent  for,  and  returned  to  the 
village,  to  administer  the  last  sacraments  to  her.  She 
departed  in  peace." 

So  saying,  the  schoolmaster  rose  and  walked  out 
into  the  garden,  and  one  after  another  his  hearers 
dispersed.  Some  had  been  moved  by  his  story  ;  others 
said  that  this  sort  of  thing  happened  every  day,  only 
one  didn't  think  of  it,  and  that  they  didn't  call  it 
much  of  a  story.  However,  no  one  thought  of  renew- 
ing the  dispute :  the  subject  dropped,  and  that  had 
been  the  intention  of  the  good  schoolmaster. 


ELINORE. 

BY  JOHN   S.   ADAMS. 

SHE  stood  beside  the  sea  shore  weeping, 
While  above  her  stars  were  keeping 

Vigils  o'er  the  silent  deep  ; 
While  all  others,  wearied,  slumbered, 
She  the  passing  moments  numbered, 

She  a  faithful  watch  did  keep. 

Hun  she  loved  had  long  departed, 
And  she  wandered  broken  hearted, 

Breathing  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 
Friends  did  gather  round  to  win  her, 
But  the  thoughts  that  burnt  within  her 

Were  to  her  most  fond  and  dear. 


In  her  hand  she  held  bright  flowers, 
Culled  from  Nature's  fairest  bowers  ; 

On  her  brow,  from  moor  and  heath, 
Bright  green  leaves  and  flowers  did 
Borrowing  resplendent  lustre 

From  the  eyes  that  shone  beneath. 


108  ELINOKE. 

Rose  the  whisper,  "  She  is  crazy," 
"When  she  plucked  the  blooming  daisy. 

Braiding  it  within  her  hair; 
But  they  knew  not  what  of  gladness 
Mingled  with  her  notes  of  sadness, 

As  she  laid  it  gently  there. 

For  her  Lillian,  ere  he  started, 
While  she  still  was  happy  hearted, 

Clipped  a  daisy  from  its  stem, 
Placed  it  in  her  hair,  and  told  her, 
Till  again  he  should  behold  her, 

That  should  be  her  diadem. 

At  the  seaside  she  was  roaming, 
When  the  waves  were  madly  foaming, 

And  when  all  was  calm  and  mild, 
Singing  songs,  —  she  thought  he  listened,' 
And  each  dancing  wave  that  glistened 

Loved  she  as  a  little  child. 

For  she  thought  in  every  motion 
Of  the  ceaseless,  moving  ocean, 

She  could  see  her  Lillian's  hand 
Stretched  towards  the  shore  imploring, 
Where  she  stood,  like  one  adoring 
Beckoning  to  a  better  land. 


ELINORE.  109 

"When  the  sun  was  brightly  shining, 
When  the  daylight  was  declining, 

On  the  shore  she'd  watch  and  wait, 
Like  an  angel  heaven-descending, 
'Mid  the  ranks  of  mortals  wending, 

Searching  for  a  missing  mate. 

Years  passed  on,  and  when  the  morning 
Of  a  summer's  day  gave  warning 

Of  the  sweets  it  held  in  store, 
By  the  dancing  waves  surrounded, 
Like  a  fairy  one  she  bounded 

To  her  Lillian's  arms  once  more. 

Villagers  thus  tell  the  story, 
And  they  say  a  light  of  glory 

Hovereth  above  the  spot 
Where  days  and  years  she  waited, 
With  a  love  all  unabated, 

And  a  faith  that  faltered  not. 

There's  a  stone  that  is  uplifted, 

Where  the  wild  sea  flowers  have  drifted  j 
Fonder  words  no  stone  ere  bore ; 

And  the  waves  come  up  to  greet  them, 

Seeming  often  to  repeat  them, 
While  afar  their  echoes  roar  — 
"DEATHLESS  LOVE  OF  ELINORE," 


THE    GAMBLER'S    LAST    STAKE. 

A    SCENE    IN    MADRID. 

IN  an  inner  room  of  his  counting  house,  which  occu- 
pied a  wing  of  his  splendid  mansion  in  the  Calle  Alcala, 
sat  Don  Jose  Solano,  one  of  the  richest  bankers  in  Ma- 
drid, ruminating  with  much  self-complacency  upon  the 
profitable  results  of  a  recent  speculation.  He  was  in- 
terrupted in  his  meditations  by  the  entrance  of  one 
of  his  clerks  ushering  in  a  stranger,  who  brought  a 
letter  of  introduction  from  a  banker  at  Mexico,  with 
whom  Don  Jose  had  had  occasional  transactions.  The 
letter  stated  that  the  bearer,  the  Conde  de  Valleja, 
was  of  a  highly-respected  family  of  Mexican  nobility, 
that  he  was  desirous  of  visiting  Europe,  and  more 
especially  the  country  of  his  ancestors,  Spain ;  and  it 
then  went  on  to  recommend  him  in  the  strongest 
terms  to  the  Madrid  banker,  as  one  whose  intimacy 
and  friendship  could  not  fail  to  be  sought  after  by  all 
who  became  acquainted  with  his  many  excellent  and 
agreeable  qualities. 


THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE.  Ill 

The  appearance  of  the  count  seemed  to  justify,  a8 
far  as  appearance  can  do,  the  high  terms  in  which  he 
was  spoken  of  in  this  letter.  He  was  about  eight 
and  twenty  years  of  age,  dark  complexioned,  with  a 
high,  clear  forehead,  short,  crisp,  curling  hair,  an  in- 
telligent and  regular  countenance,  and  a  smile  of  sin- 
gular beauty  and  fascination.  His  eyes  were  the  only 
feature  which  could  be  pronounced  otherwise  than 
extremely  pleasing ;  although  large,  black,  and  lus- 
trous, they  had  a  certain  fixity  and  hardness  of  ex- 
pression that  produced  an  unpleasant  impression  upon 
the  beholder,  and  would,  perhaps,  have  been  more 
disagreeable  had  not  the  mellow  tones  of  the  count's 
voice,  and  his  suavity  and  polish  of  manner,  served 
in  great  measure  to  counteract  the  effect  of  this  pe- 
culiarity. 

Doing  due  honor  to  the  strong  recommendation  of 
his  esteemed  correspondent,  Don  Jose  welcomed  the 
young  Conde  with  the  utmost  hospitality,  insisted  on 
taking  possession  of  him  for  the  whole  of  the  day, 
and,  without  allowing  him  to  return  to  his  hotel, 
dragged  him  into  the  house,  presented  him  to  his  son 
and  daughter,  and  charged  them  to  use  their  utmost 
exertions  to  entertain  their  guest,  while  he  himself 
returned  to  his  occupations  till  dinner  time.  At  one 
o'clock  the  old  banker  reappeared  in  the  sala,  where 


112  THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE. 

he  found  Rafael  and  Mariquita  Solano  listening  with 
avidity  to  the  agreeable  conversation  of  the  count, 
who,  in  his  rich  and  characteristic  Mexican  Spanish, 
was"  giving  them  the  most  interesting  details  concern- 
ing the  country  he  had  recently  left.  The  magnifi- 
cence of  Mexican  scenery,  the  peculiarities  of  the 
Indian  races,  the  gorgeous  vegetation  and  strange 
animals  of  the  tropics,  formed  the  subjects  of  his  dis- 
course, not  a  little  interesting  to  a  young  man  of 
three  and  twenty,  and  a  girl  of  eighteen,  who  had 
never  as  yet  been  fifty  leagues  away  from  Madrid. 
Nor  had  the  stranger's  conversation  less  charms  for 
the  old  banker.  Valleja  had  been  at  the  Havana ; 
was  acquainted  with  scenes,  if  not  with  persons,  with 
which  were  associated  some  of  Don  Jose's  most  agree- 
able reminiscences  —  scenes  that  he  had  visited  in  the 
days  of  his  youth,  when  he  laid  the  first  foundation 
of  his  princely  fortune.  To  be  brief:  the  agreeable 
manners  and  conversation  of  the  count  so  won  upon 
father,  son,  and  daughter,  that  when?  at  nightfall,  he 
rose  to  take  his  leave,  tlie  banker  put  his  house  a  *« 
disposition,  and  followed  up  what  is  usually  a  mere 
verbal  compliment,  by  insisting  upon  Valleja's  taking 
up  his  abode  with  him  during  his  stay  in  Madrid. 
Valleja  raised  many  difficulties  on  the  score  of  the 
inconveniences  or  trouble  he  might  occasion ;  but  they 


THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE.  113 

were  all  overruled,  and  the  contest  of  politeness  ter- 
minated in  the  count's  accepting  the  hospitality  thus 
cordially  pressed  upon  him.  The  very  next  day  he 
was  installed  in  a  splendid  apartment  in  the  house  of 
Don  Jose. 

Several  days,  even  weeks,  elapsed,  during  which 
Valleja  continued  to  be  the  inmate  of  the  Casa  So- 
lano.  He  appeared  very  well  pleased  with  his  quar- 
ters, and,  on  the  other  hand,  his  hosts  found  no  reason 
to  regret  the  hospitality  shown  him.  He  soon  became 
the  spoiled  child  of  the  family ;  Don  Jose  could  not 
make  a  meal  without  Valleja  was  there  to  chat  with 
him  about  the  Havana;  Rafael  was  the  inseparable 
companion  of  his  wralks,  rides,  and  out-door  diver- 
sions ;  while  the  blooming  Mariquita  never  seemed  so 
happy  as  when  the  handsome  Mexican  was  seated 
beside  her  embroidery  frame,  conversing  with  her  in 
his  low,  soft  tones,  or  singing  to  the  accompaniment 
of  her  guitar  some  of  the  wild  melodies  of  his  native 
country.  Indeed,  so  marked  were  the  count's  atten- 
tions to  the  young  girl,  and  so  favorably  did  she 
receive  them,  that  more  than  one  officious  or  well- 
meaning  friend  hinted  to  Don  Jose  the  propriety  of 
instituting  some  inquiry  into  the  circumstances  and 
antecedents  of  a  man,  who,  it  seemed  not  improbable, 
might  eventually  aspire  to  become  his  son-in-law.  But 
10* 


i!4  THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE. 

the  banker's  prepossession  in  favor  of  Valleja  was  so 
strong  that  he  gave  little  heed  to  these  hints,  content- 
ing himself  with  writing  to  his  correspondent  at  Mex- 
ico, expressing  the  pleasure  he  had  had  in  making  the 
count's  acquaintance,  and  receiving  him  as  an  inmate 
in  his  house ;  but  without  asking  for  any  informa- 
tion concerning  him.  In  fact,  the  letter  Valleja  had 
brought  was  such  as  to  render  any  further  inquiries 
nearly  superfluous.  It  mentioned  the  count  as  of  a 
noble  and  respected  family,  and  credited  him  to  the 
amount  of  ten  thousand  dollars,  a  sum  of  sufficient 
importance  to  make  it  presumable  that  his  means 
were  ample. 

Before  Valleja  had  been  three  days  at  Madrid,  he 
had  obtained  his  entree  to  a  house  at  which  a  num- 
ber of  idlers  and  fashionables  were  in  the  habit  of 
meeting  to  play  monte,  the  game  of  all  others  most 
fascinating  to  the  Spaniard.  Thither  he  used  to  re- 
pair each  afternoon,  accompanied  by  Rafael  Solano,  and 
there  he  soon  made  himself  remarked  by  his  judg- 
ment in  play,  and  by  the  cool  indifference  with  which 
he  lost  and  won  very  considerable  sums.  For  some 
time  he  was  exceedingly  successful.  Every  stake  he 
put  down  doubled  itself;  he  seemed  to  play  with 
charmed  money ;  and  the  bankers  trembled  when  they 
saw  him  approach  the  table,  and  after  a  glance  at  the 


THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE.  115 

state  of  the  game,  place  a  pile  of  golden  ounces  on  a 
card,  which  almost  invariably  won  the  very  next  mo- 
ment. This  lasted  several  days,  and  he  began  to  be 
considered  as  invincible,  when  suddenly  his  good  for- 
tune deserted  him,  and  he  lost  as  fast,  or  faster,  than 
he  had  previously  won ;  so  that,  after  a  fortnight  of 
incessant  bad  luck,  it  was  estimated  by  certain  old 
gamblers,  who  had  taken  an  interest  in  watching  his 
•proceedings,  that  he  had  lost  not  only  all  his  win- 
nings, but  a  very  considerable  sum  in  addition.  Rafa- 
el, who  rarely  played,  and  then  only  for  small  stakes, 
urged  his  friend  to  discontinue  a  game  which  he 
found  so  losing ;  but  Valleja  laughed  at  his  remon- 
strances, and  treated  his  losses  as  trifling  ones,  which 
a  single  clay's  good  fortune  might  retrieve.  Gambling 
is  scarcely  looked  upon  as  a  vice  in  Spain,  and  young 
Solano  saw  nothing  unusual  or  blamable  in  the  count's 
indulging  in  his  afternoon  juego,  or  in  his  losing  his 
money  if  it  so  pleased  him,  and  if  he  thought  an 
hour  or  two's  excitement  worth  the  large  sums  which 
it  usually  cost  him.  Indeed,  the  circumstance  of  their 
visits  to  the  gaming  room  appeared  to  him  so  unim- 
portant, that  it  never  occurred  to  him  -to  mention  it 
to  his  father  or  sister ;  and  they,  on  their  part,  never 
dreamed  of  inquiring  in  what  way  the  young  men 
passed  the  few  hours  of  the  day  during  which  they 
absented  themselves  from  their  society. 


116  THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE. 

The  monte  table  which  Valleja  was  in  the  habit  of 
frequenting  was  situated  on  the  third  floor  of  a  house 
in  a  narrow  street  leading  out  of  the  Calle  Alcala, 
within  two  or  three  hundred  yards  of  the  Casa  So- 
lano.  Amongst  the  persons  to  be  met  there  were 
many  of  the  richest  and  highest  in  Madrid :  generals 
and  ministers,  counts  and  marquises,  and  even  gran- 
dees of  Spain  were  in  the  habit  of  repairing  thither 
to  while  away  the  long  winter  evenings  or  the  sultri- 
ness of  the  summer  day ;  and  the  play  was  propor- 
tionate to  the  high  rank  and  great  opulence  of  most 
of  the  players.  The  bank  was  held,  as  is  customary 
in  Spain,  by  the  person  who  offered  to  put  in  the 
largest  sum,  the  keeper  of  the  room  being  remuner- 
ated by  a  certain  tax  upon  the  cards ;  a  tax  which, 
in  this  instance,  was  a  heavy  one,  in  order  to  com- 
pensate for  the  luxury  displayed  in  the  decoration 
and  arrangements  of  the  establishment.  The  three 
rooms  were  fitted  up  in  the  most  costly  manner ;  the 
walls  lined  with  magnificent  pier  glasses ;  the  floor 
covered  in  winter  with  rich  carpets,  and  in  summer 
with  the  finest  Indian  matting ;  the  furniture  was  of 
the  newest  French  fashion.  Splendid  chandeliers  hung 
from  the  ceiling ;  musical  clocks  stood  upon  the  side 
tables ;  the  gilt  balconies  were  filled  with  the  rarest 
exotics  and  flowering  plants.  Two  of  the  rooms  were 


THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE.  I]'7 

devoted  to  play ;  in  the  third,  ices  and  refreshments 
awaited  the  parched  throats  of  the  feverish  gam- 
blers. 

On  a  scorching  June  afternoon,  about  a  month  after 
Valleja  arrived  at  Madrid,  the  Mexican  and  Rafael 
left  Don  Jose's  dwelling,  and  bent  their  steps  in  the 
usual  direction.  While  ascending  the  well-worn  stairs 
of  the  gaming  house,  young  Solano  could  not  forbear 
addressing  a  remonstrance  to  his  friend  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  losses.  Although  the  count's  perfect  com- 
mand over  himself  and  his  countenance  made  it  very 
difficult  for  so  young  and  inexperienced  a  man  as 
Rafael  to  judge  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  the 
latter,  nevertheless,  fancied  that  for  three  or  four 
days  past  there  had  been  a  change  in  his  demean- 
or,  denoting  uneasiness  and  anxiety.  It  was  not 
that  he  was  duller  or  more  silent ;  on  the  contrary, 
his  conversation  was,  perhaps,  more  brilliant  and 
varied,  his  laugh  louder  and  more  frequent,  than 
usual,  but  there  was  a  hollowness  in  the  laugh,  and  a 
strained  tone  in  the  conversation,  as  if  he  were  com- 
pelling himself  to  be  gay  in  order  to  drive  a*vay 
painful  thoughts  —  intoxicating  himself  with  many 
words  and  forced  merriment.  Rafael  attributed  this 
to  the  annoyance  caused  by  his  heavy  losses,  and 
now  urged  him  to  discontinue  his  visits  to  the  monte 


118  THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE. 

table,  at  least  for  a  time,  or  until  his  luck  be- 
came better.  The  count  met  the  suggestion  with 
a  smile. 

"  My  dear  Rafael,"  cried  he,  gayly,  "  you  surely  do 
not  suppose  that  the  loss  of  a  few  hundred  miserable 
ounces  would  be  sufficient  to  annoy  me  for  a  moment  ? 
As  to  abandoning  play,  we  should  be  puzzled  then  to 
pass  the  idle  hour  or  two  following  the  siesta.  Be- 
sides that,  it  amuses  me.  But  do  not  make  yourself 
uneasy ;  I  shall  do  myself  no  harm,  and,  moreover,  I 
intend  this  very  day  to  win  back  all  my  losings :  I 
feel  in  the  vein." 

"  I  heartily  hope  you  may  do  as  you  intend,"  said 
Rafael,  laughing,  quite  reassured  by  his  friend's  care- 
less manner;  and,  as  he  uttered  the  words,  the  count 
pushed  open  the  door,  and  they  entered  the  monte 
room. 

The  game  was  already  in  full  activity,  and  the  play 
very  high ;  the  table  strewed  with  the  showy  Spanish 
cards,  on  which,  instead  of  the  spades  and  diamonds 
familiar  to  most  European  card  players,  suns  and  vases, 
sabres  and  horses,  were  depicted  in  various  and  bril- 
liant colors.  An  officer  of  the  royal  guard  and  a  dry, 
snuffy  old  marquis  held  the  bank,  which  had  been 
very  successful.  Large  piles  of  ounces  and  of  four 
and  eight  dollar  pieces  were  on  the  green  cloth  before 


THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE.  119 

tfiem,  as  well  as  a  roll  of  paper  nearly  treble  the 
value  of  the  specie.  Twenty  or  thirty  players  were 
congregated  round  the  table,  while  a  few  unfortunates, 
whose  pockets  had  already  been  emptied,  were  solacing 
themselves  with  their  cigars,  and  occasionally  indulging 
in  an  oath  or  impatient  stamp  of  the  foot,  when  they 
saw  a  card  come  up  which  they  would  certainly  have 
backed  —  had  they  had  money  so  to  do.  Two  or 
three  idlers  were  sitting  on  the  low  sills  of  the  long 
French  windows,  reading  newspapers  and  enjoying  the 
fragrance  of  the  flowers ;  protected  from  the  reflected 
glare  of  the  opposite  houses,  on  which  the  sun  was 
darting  its  rays,  by  awnings  of  striped  linen  that  fell 
from  above  the  windows,  and  hung  over  the  outside 
of  the  small  semicircular  balconies. 

After  standing  for  a  few  minutes  at  the  table,  and 
staking  a  doubloon,  which  he  instantly  lost,  Rafael 
Solano  took  up  a  paper,  and  threw  himself  into  an 
arm  chair,  while  Valleja  remained  watching  with  keen 
attention  the  various  fluctuations  of  the  cards.  For 
some  time  ,he  did  not  join  the  game,  rather  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  other  players,  who  were  accus- 
tomed to  see  him  stake  his  money,  as  soon  as  he  en- 
tered the  room,  with  an  unhesitating  boldness  and 
confidence.  Half  an  hour  passed  in  this  manner,  and 
the  presence  of  Valleja  was  beginning  to  be  forgotten^ 


120  THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE. 

when  he  suddenly  drew  a  heavy  rouleau  of  gold  from 
his  pocket  and  placed  it  upon  a  card.  The  game 
went  on ;  Valleja  lost,  and  with  his  usual  sang  froid 
saw  his  stake  thrown  into  the  bank.  Another  fol- 
lowed, and  a  third,  and  a  fourth.  In  four  coups  he 
had  lost  three  thousand  dollars.  Still  not  a  sign  of 
excitement  or  discomposure  appeared  upon  the  hand- 
some countenance  of  the  Mexican ;  only  an  officer 
who  was  standing  by  him  observed,  that  a  pack  of 
the  thin  Spanish  cards,  which  he  had  been  holding  in 
his  hands,  fell  to  the  ground,  torn  completely  in  halves 
by  one  violent  wrench. 

The  four  high  stakes,  so  boldly  played  and  so  rap- 
idly lost,  riveted  the  observation  of  the  gamblers  upon 
Valleja's  proceedings.  Every  body  crowded  round  the 
table,  and  even  the  slight  buzz  of  conversation,  that 
had  before  been  heard,  totally  ceased.  His  attention 
attracted  by  this  sudden  stillness,  Rafael  rose  from  his 
chair  and  joined  his  friend.  A  glance  at  the  increased 
wealth  of  the  bank,  and  the  eagerness  with  which  all 
seemed  to  be  awaiting  Valleja's  movements,  made  him 
conjecture  what  had  occurred. 

"  You  have  lost,"  said  he  to  the  count,  "  and  heav- 
ily, I  fear.  Come,  that  will  do  for  to-day.  Let 
us  go." 

"  Pshaw  !  "    replied  the    Mexican,  "  a  mere 


THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE.  121 

which  you  shall  see  me  win  back."  « And  then  turning 
to  the  banker,  who  was  just  commencing  a  deal, — 

"  Copo"  said  he,  "  the  king  against  the  ace." 

For  the  uninitiated  in  the  mysteries  of  monte  it 
may  be  necessary  to  state,  that  by  uttering  these  words 
Valleja  bound  himself,  if  an  ace  came  up  before  a 
king,  to  pay  an  equal  amount  to  that  in  the  bank,  as 
well  as  all  the  winnings  of  those  who  had  backed  the 
ace.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  king  won,  the  whole 
capital  of  the  bank  was  his,  as  well  as  the  stakes  of 
those  who  bet  against  him. 

"  Copo  al  rey." 

There  was  a  general  murmur  of  astonishment.  The 
bank  was  the  largest  that  had  been  seen  in  that  room 
since  a  certain  memorable  night,  when  King  Ferdi- 
nand himself,  being  out  upon  one  of  the  nocturnal 
frolics  in  which  he  so  much  delighted,  had  come  up 
in  disguise  with  an  officer  of  his  household,  and  lost 
a  sum  that  had  greatly  advantaged  the  bankers  and 
sorely  diminished  the  contents  of  his  Catholic  majesty's 
privy  purse.  There  were  at  least  thirty  thousand  dol- 
lars on  the  table  in  gold  and  paper,  and  besides  that, 
scarcely  had  the  Mexican  uttered  the  name  of  the 
card  he  favored,  when,  on  the  strength  of  his  pre- 
vious ill  luck,  some  of  the  players  put  down  nearly 
half  as  much  more  against  it.  The  two  bankers 
11 


122  THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE. 

looked  at  each  other;  the  guardsman  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  elevated  his  eyebrows.  Both  move- 
ments were  so  slight  as  to  be  scarcely  perceptible ; 
but  they  were,  nevertheless,  excellently  well  observed 
and  understood  by  his  partner,  the  high-dried  old 
marquis,  sitting  opposite  to  him,  who  laid  the  pack 
of  cards  upon  the  table,  their  face  to  the  cloth,  and, 
after  placing  a  piece  of  money  on  them  to  prevent 
their  being  disturbed  by  any  chance  puff  of  wind, 
opened  his  gold  box  and  took  a  prodigious  pinch 
of  snuff.  Having  done  this  with  much  deliberation, 
he  let  his  hands  fall  upon  his  knees,  and  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  with  a  countenance  expressive 
of  inexhaustible  patience.  The  players  waited  for 
nearly  a  minute,  but  then  began  to  grow  impatient 
of  the  delay.  At  the  first  question  put  to  the  mar- 
quis, as  to  its  motive,  he  waived  his  hand  towards 
Valleja. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  the  Senor  Conde,"  said  he. 
"  For  me  ?  "  replied  Valleja.     "  It  is  unnecessary." 
"  There  are  about  twenty  thousand   dollars   in  the 
bank,"  said  the  marquis,  leaning  forward,  and  affect- 
ing  to   count   the    rouleaus   lying   before   him,    "and 
Borne  eight  thousand  staked  by  these  gentlemen.     Will 
your  senoria  be  pleased  to  place  a  similar  sum  upon 
the  table  ?  " 


THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE.  123 

Several  of  the  gamblers  exchanged  significant  glances 
and  half  smiles.  The  rule  of  the  game  required  the 
player  who  endeavored,  as  Valleja  was  doing,  to  an- 
nihilate the  bank  at  one  fell  swoop,  to  produce  a 
sum  equal  to  that  which  he  had  a  chance  of  carrying 
off.  At  the  same  time,  in  societies  like  this  one, 
where  the  players  were  all,  more  or  less,  known  to 
each  other,  —  all  men  of  rank,  name,  and  fortune,— 
it  was  not  unusual  to  play  this  sort  of  decisive  coup 
upon  parole,  and,  if  lost,  the  money  was  invariably 
forthcoming  the  same  day. 

Valleja  smiled  bitterly. 

"  I  thought  I  had  been  sufficiently  known  here," 
said  he,  "  to  be  admitted  to  the  same  privilege  as 
other  players.  Rafael,"  added  he,  turning  to  his 
friend  and  handing  him  a  key,  "  your  father's  ten 
thousand  dollars  have  melted,  but  I  have  a  packet  of 
notes  and  current  securities  to  considerably  more  than 
the  needful  amount,  in  the  brass-bound  box,  in  my 
Apartment.  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  fetch 
them  for  me?  I  do  not  wish  to  interrupt  my  obser- 
vation of  the  game." 

"  "With  pleasure ! "  replied  Rafael,  taking  the  key, 
and  eager  to  oblige  his  friend. 

"  And,  perhaps,"  continued  Valleja,  smiling,  and 
detaining  him  as  he  was  about  to  hasten  out  of  the 


124  THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE. 

room,  "perhaps  you  will  not  object  to  tell  these  gen- 
tlemen,  that,  until  you  return  with  the  money,  they 
may  take  Luis  Valleja's  word  for  the  sum  he  wisnes 
to  play." 

"  Most  assuredly  I  will,"  answered  the  young  man, 
hastily,  "and  I  am  only  sorry  that  the  sefior  mar- 
quis should  have  thought  it  advisable  to  pu.t  any 
thing  resembling  a  slight  upon  a  friend  of  mine  and 
my  father's.  Gentlemen,"  he  continued,  to  the  bank- 
ers, "  I  offer  you  my  guaranty  for  the  sum  Count 
Valleja  is  about  to  play." 

The  old  marquis  bowed  his  head. 

"  That  is  quite  sufficient,  Don  Rafael,"  said  he.  "  I 
have  the  honor  of  knowing  you  perfectly  well.  His 
senoria,  the  Count  Valleja,  is  only  known  to  me  as 
Count  Valleja,  and  I  am  certain  that,  on  reflection, 
neither  he  nor  you  will  blame  me  for  acting  as  I  do, 
when  so  heavy  a  sum  is  at  stake." 

Don  Rafael  left  the  room.  The  formal  marquis 
removed  the  piece  of  money  from  off  the  pack,  and 
took  up  the  cards  with  as  much  dry  indifference  as 
if  he  were  no  way  concerned  in  the  result  of  the  im- 
portant game  that  was  about  to  be  played.  Valleja 
sauntered  to  the  window,  humming  a  tune  between 
his  teeth,  and  stepping  out,  pushed  the  awning  a  little 
uside,  and  leaned  over  the  balcony. 


THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE.  125 

The  banker  began  to  draw  the  cards^  one  after  the 
Dther,  slowly  and  deliberately.  Nearly  half  the  pack 
was  dealt  out,  without  a  king  or  an  ace  appearing. 
The  players  a^id  lookers  on  were  breathless  with  anx- 
iety ;  the  fall  of  a  pin  would  have  been  audible ;  the 
tune,  which  the  count  continued  to  hum  from  his  sta- 
tion on  the  balcony,  was  heard,  in  the  stillness  that 
reigned,  as  distinctly  as  though  it  had  been  thundered 
out  by  a  whole  orchestra.  Another  card,  and  another, 
was  drawn,  and  then  —  the  decisive  one  appeared. 
The  silence  was  immediately  exchanged  for  a  tumult 
of  words  and  exclamations. 

"  Que  es  eso  ? "  said  Valleja,  turning  half  round, 
and  smelling,  as  he  spoke,  at  a  superb  flower,  which 
he  had  just  plucked  from  one  of  the  plants  in  the 
balcony.  "What's  the  matter?" 

"  The  ace "  —  said  the  person  nearest  the  window, 
who  then  paused  and  hesitated. 

"  Well ! "  said  Valleja,  with  a  sneer,  "  the  ace  — 
what  then?  It  has  won,  I  suppose." 

"  It  has  won." 

"  Muy  bien.  It  was  to  be  expected  it  would,  since 
I  went  on  the  king."  And,  turning  round  again,  he 
resumed  his  tune  and  his  gaze  into  the  street. 

"  Ha  de  ser  rico"  said  the  Spaniard  to  another  of 
the  players.  "  He  must  be  rich.  It  would  be  difficult 
11* 


126  THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  SIAKE. 

to  take  the  loss  of  thirty  thousand  dollars  more  coolly 
than  that." 

Five  minutes  elapsed,  during  which  the  bankers 
were  busy  counting  out  their  bank,  iij  order  to  see 
the  exact  sum  due  to  them  by  the  unfortunate  loser. 
When  the  jingle  of  money  and  rustle  of  paper  ceased, 
Yalleja  looked  round  for  the  second  time. 

"  How  much  is  there,  senores  ? "  cried  he. 

"  Thirty  thousand  four  hundred  and  thirty  dollars, 
Senor  Conde,"  replied  the  old  marquis,  with  a  bow 
of  profound  respect  for  one  who  could  bear  such  a 
loss  with  such  admirable  indifference. 

"  Very  good,"  was  the  count's  answer ;  "  and  here 
comes  the  man  who  will  pay  it  you." 

Accordingly,  the  next  minute,  a  hasty  step  was 
heard  upon  the  stairs.  All  eyes  were  turned  to  the 
door,  which  opened,  and  Rafael  Solano  entered. 

"  Where  is  the  count  ? "  exclaimed  he,  in  a  hurried 
voice,  and  with  a  discomposed  countenance. 

Again  every  head  was  turned  towards  the  window ; 
but  the  count  had  disappeared.  At  the  same  moment, 
from  the  street  below,  which  was  a  quiet  and  unfre- 
quented one,  there  arose  an  unusual  uproar  and  noise 
of  voices.  The  monte  players  rushed  to  the  windows, 
and  saw  several  persons  collected  round  a  man  whom 
they  were  raising  from  the  ground.  His  skull  was 


THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE.      127 

frightfully  fractured,  and  the  pavement  around  sprin- 
kled with  his  blood.  Rafael  and  some  others  hurried 
down ;  but,  before  they  reached  the  street,  Count 
Luis  Valleja  had  expired.  The  gambler's  last  stake 
had  been  his  life. 

When  young  Solan o  reached  his  father's  house, 
and,  repairing  to  the  count's  apartment,  opened  the 
desk  of  which  Valleja  had  given  him  the  key,  he 
found  that  it  contained  neither  notes  nor  any  thing 
else  of  value,  but  merely  a  few  worthless  papers. 
Astonished  at  this,  and,  in  spite  of  his  prepossession 
in  favor  of  the  count,  feeling  his  suspicions  a  little 
roused  by  what  he  could  hardly  consider  an  oversight, 
he  hurried  back  to  the  monte  room,  where  his  arrival 
served  as  the  signal  for  the  catastrophe  that  has  been 
related. 

The  same  evening,  the  amount  lost  was  paid  by 
Rafael  Solano  into  the  hands  of  the  winners.  The 
following  day,  the  body  of  the  count  was  privately 
interred. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  weeks,  there  came  a  letter 
from  Mexico,  in  reply  to  the  one  which  Don  Jose 
Solano  had  written  to  announce  the  arrival  of  Valleja. 
His  Mexican  correspondent  wrote  in  all  haste,  anxious, 
if  still .  possible,  to  preserve  Don  Jose  from  becoming 
the  dupe  of  a  swindler.  "  The  Conde  de  Valleja,"  he 


128  THE  GAMBLER'S  LAST  STAKE. 

said,  "was  the  last  and  unworthy  scion  of  a  noble  and 
once  respected  family.  From  his  early  youth  he  had 
made  himself  remarkable  as  well  for  the  vices  of  his 
character  as  for  the  skill  with  which  he  concealed 
them  under  a  mask  of  agreeable  accomplishments  and 
fascinating  manners.  His  father,  dying  shortly  after 
he  became  of  age,  had  left  him  the  uncontrolled  mas- 
ter of  his  fortune,  which  he  speedily  squandered ;  and 
when  it  was  gone,  he  Lived,  for  some  time,  by  the  ex- 
'ercise  of  his  wits,  and  by  preying  on  all  who  were 
sufficiently  credulous  to  confide  in  him.  At  length, 
having  exhausted  every  resource,  —  when  no  man  of 
honor  would  speak  to  him,  and  no  usurer  lend  him  a 
maravedi  at  any  rate  of  interest,  —  he  had,  by  an 
unworthy  artifice,  duped  the  very  last  person  who 
took  any  interest  in  him,  out  of  a  few  hundred  dol- 
lars, and  taken  ship  at  Vera  Cruz  for  Europe." 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add,  that  the  letter  of 
credit  was  a  forgery. 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  ANGELS. 

BY    JOHN    PATCH,    ESQ. 

'Tis  said,  when  God  first  made  the  world, 
Earth's  veins  ran  streams  of  liquid  gold ; 

Ai*d  the  bright  courts  of  paradise 

Were  paved  with  priceless  gems  untold. 

Scarce  ceased  the  "  song  of  morning  stars," 
That  ushered  in  the  primal  day, 

Ere  from  their  burning  thrones  to  earth 
An  angel  host  quick  winged  their  way,  — - 

To  build  a  consecrated  fane, 

Where  men  and  angels  might  unite 

To  worship  God  in  holiness, 

And  sing  his  praise  by  day  and  night. 


130        THE  TEMPLE  OP  THE  ANGELS. 

On  gold  foundations,  deeply  laid, 

Bright  quarried  diamonds  they  pile ; 

Mingled  with  precious  stones  and  pearls, 
Gathered  from  earth's  remotest  isle. 

So  quick  is  angel  work  divine, 
That,  ere  the  second  sun  had  set, 

The  tower  and  columned  roof  arose, 
Crowned  by  a  crystal  parapet. 

Within  —  beneath  the  vaulted  dome 

Of  amethyst  cerulean  blue  — 
Bright,  clustering  constellations  shone, 

As  shone  the  stars  when  earth  was  new. 

The  angels  viewed  it  with  delight, 

And  God  a  day  had  set  apart, 
To  meet  therein  his  favored  ones, 

Who  serve  him  with  a  perfect  heart. 

But  ere  it  came  man  recreant  fell, 

And  joined  death's  foul,  black-bannered  host ; 
_    And  with  him  fell  the  angel  fane, 
And  man's  proud  legacy  was  lost. 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  ANGELS.        131 

Deep  hid  —  by  earthquakes  swallowed  up  — 
The  "  Temple  of  the  Angels  "  lay, 

While  round  were  "  cherubs'  flaming  swords, 
That  turned  to  guard  it  every  way." 

At  length,  when  to  the  centre  riven, 
The  world  was  by  the  flood  o'erthrown, 

Scattered  beneath  the  cope  of  heaven, 
The  ruined  fane  in  fragments  shone. 

Hence  all  the  stones  we  precious  deem  — 
And  all  the  jewels  from  abroad  — 

With  which  again  shall  be  rebuilt 
ZION,  the  city  of  our  God. 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

IT  was  towards  the  commencement  of  the  month 
of  December,  1825,  that  I  was  going  down  the  Mis- 
sissippi in  the  steamboat  Feliciana.  We  had  arrived 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Hopefield,  Hampstead  county, 
when  one  of  our  paddles  struck  against  a  sawyer,* 
and  was  broken  to  pieces.  We  were  obliged,  in  con- 
sequence, to  cast  anchjr  before  ^13  tcwn, 

Hopefield  is  a  small  town  on  the  west  bank  of  the 
river,  about  six  hundred  miles  above  New  Orleans, 
and  five  hundred  below  the  junction  of  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi.  It  consisted,  at  the  time  of  which  I 
speak,  of  about  fifteen  houses,  two  of  which  were 
taverns  and  shops  of  the  usual  kind  found  in  such 
places  —  their  stock  in  trade  consisting  of  a  cask  or 
two  of  whiskey,  a  couple  of  dozen  knives  and  forks,  a 

*  The  local  name  for  large  tree  trunks  which  get  partially 
buried  in  the  mud,  one  end  sticking  up  just  below  the  surface 
of  the  water.  They  cause  frequent  accidents  to  the  steamboats 
on  the  Mississippi. 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  %    133 

few  colored  handkerchiefs,  some  earthen  ware,  lead, 
powder,  and  the  like.  Our  party  was  composed  of 
ten  ladies,  the  same  number  of  young  men,  and 
several  elderly  gentlemen.  Nothing  appears  so  de- 
sirable, during  a  long  voyage  in  a  river  steamboat, 
as  a  stroll  upon  shore ;  and,  as  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done  at  Hopefield,  the  proposal  of  one  of  our 
number  to  take  a  ramble  in  the  forest  was  met  with 
unqualified  approbation  by  all  the  young  men.  We 
3quipped  ourselves  each  with  a  rifle,  and  a  bottle  of 
wine  or  brandy,  to  keep  the  vapors  of  the  swamps 
out  of  our  throats ;  the  son  of  one  of  the  tavern  keep- 
ers, who  offeree^  himself  as  a  guide,  was  loaded  with 
a  mighty  ham  and  a  bag  of  biscuits,  which  we  pro- 
cured from  the  steamboat ;  and  thus  provided,  we  sal- 
lied forth  on  our  expediton,  attended  by  the  good  wishes 
of  the  ladies,  who  accompanied  us  a  few  hundred  yards 
into  the  wood,  and  then  left  us  to  pursue  our  march. 
I  have  often  had  occasion  to  notice,  that  the  first 
entrance  into  one  of  our  vast  American  forests  is  apt 
to  reduce  the  greatest  talker  to  silence.  In  the  pres- 
ent instance,  I  found  the  truth  of  this  remark  fully 
confirmed.  Whether  it  was  the  subdued  half  light  of 
the  luxuriant  wilderness  through  which  we  were  pass- 
ing, the  solemn  stillness,  only  broken  by  the  rustling 
of  the  dead  leaves  under  our  feet,  or  the  colossal 
12 


134  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

dimensions  of  the  mighty  trees,  that  rose  like  so  many 
giants  around  us,  that  wrought  upon  the  imagination, 
I  cannot  ^ay ;  but  it  is  ^certain  that  my  companions, 
who  were  mostly  from  the  Northern  State  j,  and  had 
never  before  been  beyond  Albany  or  the  Saratoga 
Springs,  became  at  once  silent,  and  almost  sad.  The 
leaves  of  the  cotton  tree,  that  giant  of  the  south- 
western forests,  had  already  assumed  the  tawny  hues 
of  latter  autumn ;  only  here  and  there  a  streak  of 
sunbeam,  breaking  through  the  canopy  of  branches 
that  spread  over  our  heads,  brought  out  the  last  tints 
of  green,  now  fast  fading  away,  and  threw  a  strange 
sparkling  ray,  a  bar  of  light,  across  our  path.  Here 
was  a  magnolia  with  its  snow-white  blossoms,  or  a 
catalpa  with  its  long  cucumber-shaped  fruit,  amongst 
which  the  bright-hued  redbirds  and  paroquets  glanced 
and  fluttered. 

"We  walked  for  some  time  through  the  fores/, 
amused  more  than  once  by  the  proceedings  of  two 
young  clerks  from  Boston,  who  saw  a  wild  animal  in 
every  thicket,  and  repeatedly  levelled  their  guns  at 
some  bear  or  panther,  which  turned  out  to  be  neither 
more  nor  less  than  a  bush  or  tree  stump.  They  pes- 
tered our  guide  with  all  sorts  of  simple  questions, 
which  he,  with  a  true  backwoodsman's  indifference, 
left  for  the  most  part  unanswered.  Aft*?  about  ac 


1?HE    STOLEN    CHILD.  135 

hour,  we  found  ourselves  on  the  borders  of  a  long 
and  tolerably  wide  swamp,  formed  by  the  overflow- 
ings of  the  river,  and  which  stretched  for  some  five 
miles  from  north  to  south,  with  a  broad  patch  of  clear 
bright-green  water  in  the  centre.  The  western  bank 
was  covered  with  a  thick  growth  of  palmettoes,  the 
favorite  cover  of  deer,  bears,  and  even  panthers ;  and 
this  cover  we  resolved  to  beat.  We  divided  ourselves 
into  two  parties,  the  first  of  which,  consisting  of  the 
New  Englanders,  and  accompanied  by  the  guide,  was 
to  go  round  the  northern  extremity  of  the  swamp, 
while  we  were  to  take  a  southerly  direction,  and  both 
to  meet  behind  the  marsh,  on  a  certain  path  which 
led  through  a  thicket  of  wild  plum  trees  and  acacias. 
Our  guide's  instructions  were  not  the  clearest,  and 
the  landmarks  he  gave  us  were  only  intelligible  to  a 
thorough  backwoodsman ;  but  as  too  many  questions 
would  probably  have  puzzled  him,  *  without  making 
matters  clearer  to  us,  we  set  off,  trusting  to  our  eyes 
and  ears,  and  to  the  pocket  compasses  with  which 
several  of  us  were  provided. 

After  another  hour's  walk,  during  which  we  had 
seen  nothing  but  wild  pigeons  and  squirrels,  and  a 
few  moccason  snakes  warming  themselves  in  the  sun- 
beams,—  which  latter,  on  our  approach,  drew  hastily 
back  under  the  heaps  of  dry  leaves,  —  we  arrived  at 


136  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

the  southern  extremity  of  the  swamp.  Proceeding  a 
short  distan?e  westward,  we  then  took  a  northerly 
direction,  along  the  edge  of  the  palmetto  field,  with 
the  marsh  upon  our  right  hand.  It  was  a  sort  of 
canebrake  we  were  passing  through,  firm  footing,  and 
with  grass  up  to  our  knees ;  the  shore  of  the  swamp 
or  lake  was  overgrown  with  lofty  cedars,  shooting  out 
of  water  four  or  five  feet  deep,  which  reflected  their 
circular  crowns.  The  broad  streak  of  water  looked 
like  a  huge  band  of  satin,  and  the  slightest  motion 
of  the  leaves  was  immediately  perceptible  in  the  mir- 
ror beneath  them.  From  time  to  tirm,  the  least  pos- 
sible breeze  rustled  through  the  trees,  and  curled  the 
water  with  a  tiny  ripple.  The  water  itself  was  of 
the  brightest  emerald-green ;  and  the  forest  of  pal- 
metto stems,  that  grew  along  the  ed^e,  was  reflected 
in  it  like  myriads  of  swords  and  lances.  In  the  small 
creeks  and  inlets,  flocks  of  swans,  pelicans,  and  wild 
geese  were  sunning  themselves,  and  pluming  their 
feathers  for  their  winter  flight.  They  allowed  us  to 
come  within  a  score  of  paces  of  them,  and  then  flew 
away  with  a  rushing,  whirring  noise. 

We  had  been  for  some  time  plodding  patiently 
along,  when  our  attention  was  suddenly  attracted  by  a 
slow  but  continued  rustling  amongst  the  palmettoes 
Something  was,  evidently,  cautiously  approaching  us, 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  137 

but  whether  panther,  stag,  or  bear,  we  could  not  tell ; 
probably  the  last,  We  gave  a  glance  at  our  rifles, 
cocked  them,  and  pressed  a  few  paces  forward  amongst 
the  canes ;  when  suddenly  a  bound  and  a  cracking 
noise,  which  grew  rapidly  more  distant,  warned  us 
that  the  animal  had  taken  the  alarm.  One  of  c'ir 
companions,  who  had  as  yet  never  seen  a  bear  hunt, 
ran  forward  as  fast  as  the  palmettoes  would  allow  him, 
and  was  soon  out  of  sight.  Unfortunately  we  had  no 
dogs,  and  after  half  an  hour's  fruitless  beating  about, 
during  which  we  started  another  animal,  within  sight 
or  shot  of  which  we  were  unable  to  get,  we  became 
convinced  that  we  should  have  to  meet  our  friends 
empty  handed.  It  was  now  time  to  proceed  to  the 
place  of  rendezvous,  on  the  farther  side  of  the  pal- 
metto field,  which  was  about  half  a  mile  wide.  The 
man  who  had  gone  after  the  bear  had  rejoined  us, 
and  from  him  we  learned  that  the  brake  was  bordered 
on  the  western  side  by  a  dense  thicket  of  wild  plum, 
apple,  and  acacia  trees,  through  which  there  was  not 
the  least  sign  of  a  path.  On  arriving  there,  we  saw 
that  his  account  was  a  correct  one ;  and,  to  add  to 
our  difficulties,  the  nature  of  the  ground  in  our  front 
now  changed,  and  the  canebrake  sank  down  into  a 
sort  of  swampy  bottom,  extending  to  the  northern  ex- 
tremity of  the  lake.  Our  situation  was  an  embarrassing 
12* 


138  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

one.  Before  us,  an  impassable  swamp ;  to  our  right, 
water ;  to  our  left,  an  impenetrable  thicket ;  and  four 
hours  out  of  the  eight  that  had  been  allotted  to  us 
already  elapsed.  There  seemed  nothing  to  be  done 
but  to  retrace  our  steps ;  but,  before  doing  so,  we 
resolved  to  make  a  last  effort  to  find  a  path.  To 
this  end  we  separated,  taking  different  directions, 
and  for  nearly  half  an  hour  we  wandered  through 
the  thicket,  amongst  bushes  and  brambles,  tearing 
and  scratching  ourselves  to  no  purpose.  At  last, 
when  I  for  one  was  about  to  abandon  the  search 
in  despair,  a  loud  hurrah  gave  notice  that  the  path 
was  found.  We  were  soon  all  grouped  around  the 
lucky  discoverer;  but  to  our  considerable  disappoint- 
ment, instead  of  finding  him  at  the  entrance  of  the 
wished-for  road,  we  beheld  him  gravely  contemplating 
a  cow,  which  was  cropping  the  grass  quite  undis- 
turbed by  our  approach.  Nevertheless,  this  was  no 
bad  find,  if  we  could  only  ascertain  whether  it  was  a 
stray  cow,  that  had  wandered  far  from  its  home,  or  a 
beast  of  regular  habits,  that  passed  each  night  in  its 
master's  cow  house.  An  Ohioman  solved  the  question, 
by  pointing  out  that  the  animal  had  evidently  been 
milked  that  morning ;  and  as  we  were  debating  how 
we  should  induce .  Brindle  to  proceed  in  the  direction 
of  its  domicile,  he  settled  that  difficulty  also,  by  firing 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD,  139 

off  his  rifle  so  close  to  the  beast's  tail,  that  the  bullet 
carried  off  a  patch  of  hair,  and  grazed  the  skin. 
The  cow  gave  a  tremendous  spring,  and  rushed 
through  a  thicket,  as  if  a  score  of  wolves  had  been 
at  its  heels.  We  followed,  and  the  brute  led  us  to  a 
tolerably  good  path  through  the  wilderness,  which  we 
had  thought  impenetrable.  It  was  doubtless  the  path 
that  was  to  take  us  to  the  appointed  place  of  meet- 
ing ;  and  we  now  slackened  our  pace,  and  followed 
the  cow's  trail  more  leisurely.  We  had  proceeded 
about  a  mile,  when  a  strong  light  in  the  distance 
made  us  aw^re  that  we  were  coming  to  a  clearing ; 
and  on  arriving  at  the  place,  we  found  several  maize 
fields  enclosed  by  hedges,  and  a  log  house,  the  smok- 
ing chimney  of  which  bespoke  the  presence  of  in- 
habitants. 

The  dwelling  was  pleasantly  situated  on  a  gentle 
slope,  roofed  with  clapboards,  and  having  stables  and 
other  outhouses  in  its  rear,  such  as  one  usually  finds 
in  backwood  settlements  of  the  more  comfortable  kind. 
Peach  trees  were  trailed  against  the  house,  in  front 
of  which  stood  some  groups  of  papaws.  The  whole 
place  had  a  rural  and  agreeable  aspect. 

We  were  scarcely  within  the  hedge  that  surrounded 
the  domain,  when  a  brace  of  bull  dogs  rushed  upon 
us  with  open  jaws.  We  were  keeping  off  the  furious 


140  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

brutes  with  some  difficulty,  when  a  man  came  out  of 
the  barn,  and,  upon  seeing  us,  again  entered  it.  After 
a  few  moments,  he  appeared  for  a  second  time,  in 
company  with  two  negroes,  who  were  leading  by  the 
horns  the  very  same  cow  which  we  had  so  uncere- 
moniously compelled  to  become  our  guide.  We  greeted 
the  man  with  a  "  good  morning ; "  but  he  made  no 
answer,  merely  gazing  hard  at  us  with  a  cold,  sullen 
look.  He  was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered,  powerful  man 
with  an  expressive,  but  extraordinarily  sad,  gloomy, 
and  almost  repulsive  countenance.  There  was  a  rest- 
less excitement  of  manner  about  him,  whj^i  struck  us 
at  the  very  first  glance. 

"  A  fine  morning,"  said  I,  approaching  the  stranger. 

No  answer.  The  man  was  holding  the  cow  by  one 
horn,  and  staring  at  the  tail,  from  which  a  drop  or 
two  of  blood  was  falling. 

"  How  far  is  it  from  here  to  Hopefield  ? "  asked  I. 

"  Far  enough  for  you  never  to  get  there,  if  it's 
you  who've  been  drivin*  my  cow,"  was  the  threaten- 
ing reply. 

"  And  if  we  had  driven  your  cow,"  said  I,  "  you  would 
surely  not  take  it  amiss  ?  It  was  a  mere  accident," 

"  Such  accidents  don't  often  happen.  People  don't 
shoot  cows,  if  they  haven't  a  mind  to  eat  other  folk's 
beef." 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  141 

"  You  do  not  suppose,"  said  the  Qhioman,  "  that 
we  should  wish  to  hurt  your  cow  —  we,  who  have  no 
other  intention  but  to  shoot  a  few  turkeys  for  the 
voyage.  We  are  passengers  by  the  Feliciana :  one 
of  our  paddles  is  broken ;  and  that  is  the  reason  that 
our  boat  is  at  anchor  in  front  of  Hopefield,  and  that 
we  are  here." 

This  circumstantial  explanation  seemed  to  produce 
little  effect  on  the  backwoodsman.  He  made  no  reply. 
We  walked  towards  the  house,  and,  on  stepping  in, 
found  a  woman  there,  who  scarcely  looked  at  us,  or 
seemed  aware  o*f  our  entrance.  There  was  the  same 
appearance  of  fixed  grief  upon  her  countenance  that 
we  had  remarked  in  the  man ;  only  with  the  differ- 
ence, that  the  expression  was  less  morose  and  fierce, 
but  on  the  other  hand  more  mournful. 

"  Can  we  have  something  to  eat  ?  "  said  I  to  the 
woman. 

"  We  don't  keep  a  tavern,"  was  the  answer. 

"  The  other  party  cannot  be  far  off,"  said  one  of 
my  companions.  "  We  will  give  them  a  sign  of  our 
whereabout."  And  so  saying,  he  passed  out  at  the 
door,  and  walked  a  few  paces  in  the  direction  of  a 
cotton  field. 

"  Stop ! "  cried  the  backwoodsman,  suddenly,  pla- 
cing himself  before  him.  "Not  a  step  farther  shall 


142  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

you  go,  till  you  satisfy  me  who  you  are,  and  where 
from." 

"  Who  and  where  from  ? "  replied  our  comrade,  a 
young  doctor  of  medicine  from  Tennessee.  "That  is 
what  neither  you  nor  any  other  man  shall  know  who 
asks  after  such  a  fashion.  If  I'm  not  mistaken,  we 
are  in  a  free  country."  And  as  he  spoke  he  fired 
off  his  rifle. 

The  report  of  the  piece  was  echoed  so  magnifi- 
cently from  the  deep  forests  which  surrounded  the 
plantation,  that  my  other  companions  raised  their  guns 
to  their  shoulders,  with  the  intention  ef  firing  also.  I 
made  them  a  sign  in  time  to  prevent  it.  Although 
there  could  hardly  be  any  real  danger  to  be  appre- 
hended, it  appeared  to  me  advisable  to  hold  ourselves 
prepared  for  whatever  might  happen.  The  next  mo- 
ment a  shot  was  heard  —  the  answer  to  our  signal. 

"  Keep  yourself  quiet,"  said  I  to  the  backwoods- 
man ;  "  our  companions  and  their  guide  will  soon  be 
here.  As  to  your  cow,  you  can  hardly  have  so  little 
common  sense  as  to  suppose  that  five  travellers  would 
shoot  a  beast  that  must  be  perfectly  useless  to  them." 

As  I  left  off  speaking,  there  emerged  from  the.  for- 
est our  other  detachment  and  the  guide,  the  latter 
carrying  two  fat  turkeys.  He  greeted  the  backwoods- 
man as  an  old  acquaintance,  but  with  a  degree  of 


THE    STOLE*    CHILD.  143 

and  compassion  in  the  tone  of  his  saluta- 
tion which  contrasted  strangely  with  his  usual  rough, 
dry  manner. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Clarke,"  said  he,  "  heard  nothing  yet  ? 
I  am  sorry  for  it — very  sorry." 

The  backwoodsman  made  no  reply,  but  his  rigid, 
sturdy  mien  softened,  and  his  eyes,  as  I  thought, 
glistened  with  moisture. 

"  Mistress  Clarke,"  said  our  guide  to  the  woman, 
who  was  standing  at  the  house  door,  "these  gentle- 
men here  wish  for  a  snack.  They've  plenty  of  every 
thing,  if  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  cook  it." 

The  woman  stood  without  making  any  reply ;  the 
man  was  equally  silent.  There  was  a  sort  of  stub- 
born, surly  manner  about  them,  which  I  had  never 
before  witnessed  in  backwoods  people. 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "  we  need  expect  nothing 
here.  We  are  only  losing  time.  Let  us  sit  down  on 
a  tree  trunk,  and  eat  our  ham  and  biscuits." 

The  guide  made  us  a  significant  sign,  and  then 
stepping  up  to  the  woman,  spoke  to  her  in  a  low  and 
urgent  tone.  She  did  not,  however,  utter  a  Word. 

"Mistress,"  said  the  doctor,  "something  must  have 
happened  to  you  or  your  family,  to  put  you  so  out 
of  sorts.  We  are  strangers,  but  we  are  not  without 
feelings.  Tell  us  what  is  wrong.  There  may  be 
means  of  helping  you." 


144  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

The  man  looked  up ;  the  woman  shook  her  head. 

"  What  is  it  that  troubles  you  ?  "  said  I,  approach 
ing  her.  "  Speak  out.  Help  often  comes  when  least 
expected." 

The  woman  made  me  no  answer,  but  stepped  up 
to  our  guide,  took  a  turkey  and  the  ham  from  him, 
and  went  into  the  house.  We  followed,'  sat  down  at 
the  table,  and  produced  our  bottles.  The  backwoods- 
man placed  glasses  before  us.  We  pressed  him  to 
join  us,  but  he  obstinately  declined  our  invitation,  and 
we  at  last  became  weary  of  wasting  good  words  on 
him.  Our  party  consisted,  as  before  mentioned,  of 
ten  persons:  two  bottles  were  soon  emptied;  and  we 
were  beginning  to  get  somewhat  merry  whilst  talking 
over  our  morning's  ramble,  when  our  host  suddenly 
got  up  from  his  seat  in  the  chimney  corner,  and  ap 
preached  the  table. 

"  Gemmen,"  said  he,  "  you  musn't  think  me  uncivil 
if  I  tell  you  plainly,  that  I  can  have  no  noise  made 
in  my  house.  It  an't  a  house  to  larf  in  —  that  it 
an't,  by  G — !"  And  having  so  spoken,  he  resumed 
his  seat,  leaned  his  head  upon  both  hands,  and  re- 
lapsed into  his  previous  state  of  gloomy  reverie. 

"  We  ask  pardon,"  said  we ;  "  but  really  we  had 
no  idea  that  our  cheerfulness  could  annoy  you." 

The  man  made  no  reply,  and  half  an  hour  passed 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  146 

away  in  whisperings  and  conjectures.  At  the  end 
of  that  time,  a  negro  girl  came  in  to  spread  the  table 
for  our  meal. 

After  much  entreaty,  our  host  and  hostess  were 
prevailed  on  to  sit  down  with  us.  The  former  took 
a  glass  of  brandy,  and  emptied  it  at  a  draught.  We 
filled  it  again ;  he  drank  it  off,  and  it  was  again  re- 
plenished. After  the  third  glass,  a  deep  sigh  escaped 
him.  The  cordial  had  evidently  revived  him. 

"  Gemmen,"  said  he,  "  you  will  have  thought  me 
rough  and  stubborn  enough,  when  I  met  you  as  you 
had  been  huntin'  my  cow ;  but  I  see  now  who  I 
have  to  do  with.  But  may  I  be  shot  myself,  if,  when- 
ever I  find  him,  I  dpn't  send  a  bullet  through  his 
body ;  and  I'll  be  warrant  it  shall  hinder  his  stealin* 
any  more  children." 

"  Steal  children  ! "  repeated  I.  "  Has  one  of  your 
negroes  been  stolen?" 

"  One  of.  my  niggers,  man  !  My  son,  my  only  son ! 
Her  child !  "  continued  he,  pointing  to  his  wife.  "  Our 
boy,  the  only  one  remaining  to  us  out  of  five,  whom 
the  fever  carried  off  before  our  eyes.  As  bold  and 
smart  a  boy  as  any  in  the  backwoods !  Here  we 
set  ourselves  down  in  the  wilderness,  worked  day  and 
night,  went  through  toil  and  danger,  hunger  and  thirst, 
beat  and  cold.  And  for  what?  Here  we  are  alone, 
13 


146  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

deserted,  childless ;  with  nothin'  left  for  us  but  to 
pray  and  cry,  to  curse  and  groan.  No  help ;  all  in 
vain.  I  shall  go  out  of  my  mind,  I  expect.  If  he 
were  dead !  —  if  he  were  lyin'  under  the  hillock  yon- 
der, beside  his  brothers,  I  would  say  nothin'.  He 
gave,  and  He  has  a  right  to  take  away !  But,  Al- 
mighty Grod ! "  And  the  man  uttered  a  cry  so 
frightful,  so  heart-rending,  that  the  knives  and  forks 
fell  from  our  hands,  and  a  number  of  negro  women 
and  children  came  rushing  in  to  see  what  was  the 
matter.  "We  gazed  at  him  in  silence. 

"  God  only  knows,"  continued  he,  and  his  head  sank 
upon  his  breast ;  then  suddenly  starting  up,  he  drank 
off  glass  after  glass  of  brandy,  as  fast  as  he  could 
pour  it  out. 

"  And  how  and  when  did  this  horrible  theft  oc- 
cur?" asked  we. 

"  The  woman  can  tell  you  about  it,"  was  the  answei. 

The  woman  had  left  the  table,  and  now  sat  sobbing 
and  weeping  upon  the  bed.  It  was  really  a  heart- 
breaking scene.  The  doctor  got  up,  and  led  her  to 
the  table.  We  waited  till  she  became  more  com- 
posed, anxiously  expecting  her  account  of  this  horrible 
calamity. 

"  It  was  four  weeks  yesterday,"  she  began ;  "  Mister 
Clarke  was  in  the  forest ;  I  was  in  the  fields,  looking 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  147 

after  the  people,  who  were  gathering  in  the  maize. 
I  had  been  there  some  time,  and  by  the  sun  it  was 
already  pretty  near  eleven ;  but  it  was  as  fire  a 
morning  as  ever  was  seen  on  the  Mississippi,  and  the 
niggers  don't  work  well  if  there's  not  somebody  to 
look  after  them ;  so  I  remained.  At  last  it  was  time 
to  get  the  people's  dinner  ready,  and  I  left  the  field. 
I  don't  know  what  it  was,  but  I  had  scarcely  turned 
towards  the  house,  when  it  seemed  as  if  somebody 
called  to  me  to  run  as  fast  as  I  could ;  a  sort  of  fear 
and  uneasiness  came  over  me,  and  I  ran  all  the  way 
to  the  house.  When  I  got  there,  I  saw  little  Cesy, 
our  black  boy,  sitting  on  the  threshold,  and  playing 
all  alone.  I  thought  nothing  of  this,  but  went  into 
the  kitchen,  without  suspecting  any  thing  wrong.  As 
I  was  turning  about  amongst  the  pots  and  kettles,  I 
thought  suddenly  of  my  Dougal.  I  threw  down  what 
I  had  in  my  hand,  and  ran  to  the  door.  Cesy  came 
to  meet  me :  l  Missi,'  said  he,  *  Dougal  is  gone  ! ' 

"  '  Dougal  is  gone  ! '  cried  I.  *  Where  is  he  gone 
to,  Cesy?' 

"  '  Don't  know/  said  Cesy  ;  '  gone  away  with  a  man 
on  horseback.' 

"  '  With  a  man  on  horseback  ? '  said  I.  '  In  God's 
name,  where  can  he  be  gone  to  ?  What  does  all  this 
mean,  Cesy  ? ' 


148  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

"  '  Don't  know,'  said  Cesy. 

"  '  And  who  was  the  man  ?     Did  he  go  willingly  ? ' 

"'No,  he  didn't  go  willingly,'  said  Cesy;  'but  the 
man  got  off  his  horse,  put  Dougal  upon  it,  and  then 
jumped  up  behind  him,  and  rode  away.' 

"'And  you  don't  know  the  man?' 

"'No,  missi.' 

" '  Think  again,  Cesy,'  cried  I ;  'for  God's  sake, 
remember.  Don't  you  know  the  man  ? ' 

"'No,'  said  the  child,  'I  don't  know  him.' 

" '  Didn't  you  see  what  he  looked  like  ?  Was  he 
black  or  white  ? ' 

" '  I  don't  know,'  said  Cesy,  crying ;  '  he  had  a  red 
flannel  shirt  over  his  face.' 

" '  Was  it  neighbor  Syms,  or  Banks,  or  Medling, 
or  Barnes  ? ' 

"  '  No,'  whined  Cesy. 

"  '  Gracious  God  ! '  cried  I.  '  What  is  this  ?  What 
is  become  of  iny  poor  child  ? '  I  ran  backwards  and 
forwards  into  the  forest,  through  the  fields.  I  called 
out.  I  looked  every  where.  At  last  I  ran  to  where 
the  people  were  at  work,  and  fetched  Cesy's  mother 
I  thought  she  would  be  able  to  make  him  tell  some- 
thing more  about  my  child.  She  ran  to  the  house 
with  me,  promised  him  cakes,  new  clothes,  every 
thing  in  the  world ;  but  he  could  tell  nothing  moro 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  149 

than  he  had  already  told  me.  At  last  Mr.  Clarke 
came." 

Here  the  woman  paused,  and  looked  at  her  husband. 

"  When  I  came  home,"  continued  the  latter,  "  the 
woman  was  nearly  distracted ;  and  I  saw  directly  that 
some  great  misfortune  had  happened.  But  I  should 
never  have  guessed  what  it  really  was.  When  she 
told  me,  I  said,  to  comfort  her,  that  one  of  the  neigh- 
bors must  have  taken  the  child  away,  though  I  didn't 
think  it  myself;  for  none  of  the  neighbors  would 
have  allowed  themselves  such  a  freedom  with  my  only 
child.  I  shouldn't  have  thanked  'em  for  it,  I  can  tell 
you.  I  called  Cesy,  and  asked  him  again  what  the 
man  was  like ;  if  he  had  a  blue  or  a  black  coat. 
He  said  it  was  blue.  *  What  sort  of  a  horse  ? '  'A 
brown  one/  'What  road  he  had  taken?'  '  That 
road/  answered  the  boy,  pointing  to  the  swamp.  I 
sent  all  my  niggers,  men,  women,  and  children,  round 
to  the  neighbors,  to  seek  for  the  child,  and  tell  them 
what  had  happened.  I  myself  followed  the  path  that 
the  robber  had  taken,  and  found  hoof  prints  upon  it. 
I  tracked  them  to  the  creek,  but  there  I  lost  the 
trail.  The  man  must  have  got  into  a  boat,  with  his 
horse  and  the  child ;  had  perhaps  crossed  the  Missis- 
sippi, or  perhaps  gone  down  the  stream.  Who  could 
tell  where  he  would  land?  It  might  be  ten,  twenty; 
13* 


*50  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

fifty,  or  a  hundred  miles  lower  down.  I  was  terribly 
frightened,  and  I  rode  on  to  Hopefield.  There  noth- 
ing had  been  seen  or  heard  of  my  child ;  but  all  the 
men  got  on  their  horses  to  help  me  to  find  him. 
The  neighbors  came  also,  and  we  sought  about  for  a 
whole  day  and  night.  No  trace  or  track  was  to  be 
found.  Nobody  had  seen  either  the  child  or  the  mat) 
who  had  carried  him  off".  We  beat  the  woods  for 
thirty  miles  round  my  house,  crossed  the  Mississippi, 
went  up  as  far  as  Memphis,  and  down  to  Helena 
and  the  Yazoo  River;  nothing  was  to  be  seen  or 
heard.  We  came  back  as  we  went  out,  empty  handed 
and  discouraged.  When  I  got  home,  I  found  the 
whole  county  assembled  at  my  house.  Again  we  set 
out ;  again  we  searched  the  forest  through ;  every 
hollow  tree,  every  bush  and  thicket,  was  looked  into. 
Of  bears,  stags,  and  panthers  there  were  plenty,  but 
no  signs  of  my  boy.  On  the  sixth  day  I  came  home 
again ;  but  my  home  was  become  hateful  to  me  — 
every  thing  vexed  and  disgusted  me.  My  clothes  and 
skin  were  torn  off  by  the  thorns  and  briers ;  my 
very  bones  ached;  but  I  didn't  feel  it.  It  was  noth- 
ing to  what  I  suffered  in  my  mind. 

"  On  the  second  day  after  my  return,  I  was  lying 
heart  and  body  sick  in  bed,  when  one  of  the  neighbors 
tame  in,  and  told  me  that  he  had  just  seen,  at  Hopefield, 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  151 

a  man  from  Muller  county,  who  told  him  that  a  stran- 
ger had  been  seen  on  the  road  to  New  Madrid,  whose 
description  answered  to  that  which  Cesy  had  given 
of  the  child  stealer.  It  was  a  man  with  a  blue  coat 
and  a  brown  horse,  and  a  child  upon  his  saddle.  I 
forgot  my  sickness  and  my  sore  bones,  bought  a  new 
horse,  —  for  I  had  ridden  mine  nearly  to  death,  —  and 
set  out  directly,  rode  day  and  night,  three  hundred 
miles,  to  New  Madrid ;  and  when  I  arrived  there,  sure 
enough,  I  found  the  man  who  had  been  described  to 
me,  and  a  child  with  him.  But  it  was  not  my  child. 
The  man  belonged  to  New  Madrid,  and  had  been  on 
a  journey  with  his  son  into  Muller  county. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  got  home  again.  Some  peo- 
ple found  me  near  Hopefield,  and  brought  me  to  my 
house.  I  had  -fever  and  was  raving  for  ten  days; 
and  during  that  time  the  neighbors  advertised  the 
thing  in  all  the  papers  in  Tennessee,  Arkansas,  Mis- 
sissippi, and  Louisiana.  We  had  ridden  altogether 
thousands  of  miles,  but  it  was  no  use.  No ! "  con- 
tinued he,  with  a  deep  groan ;  "  if  my  child  had  died 
of  a  fever,  if  he  had  fallen  in  with  a  bear  or  panther, 
and  been  killed,  it  would  be  bitter,  bitter  sorrow  — 
he  was  my  last  child.  But,  merciful  God  —  stolen ! 
My  son,  my  poor  child,  stolen ! " 

And  the  man   cried  aloud,   sprang  from  his   seat, 


152  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

and  wrung  his  hands  and  wept  like  an  infant.  Even 
his  wife  had  not  shown  such  utter  agony  of  grief. 

"  When  I  go  to  work,"  continued  he,  after  a  pause, 
"  my  little  Dougal  seems  to  stand  before  me,  and  my 
hands  fall  to  my  sides,  as  stiff  and  heavy  as  though 
they  were  lead.  I  look  round,  but  no  Dougal  is 
there.  When  I  go  to  bed,  I  put  his  bed  beside  mine, 
and  call  him,  but  no  one  answers.  Sleeping .  or 
waking,  my  poor  boy  is  always  before  me.  Would 
to  God  I  were  dead !  I  have  cursed  and  sworn, 
prayed  and  supplicated,  wept  and  groaned,  but  all  — 
all  in  vain  !  " 

I  have  seen  many  persons  suffering  from  distress 
of  mind,  but  never  did  I  meet  with  one  whose  sorrow 
was  so  violent  and  overpowering  as  that  of  this  back- 
woodsman. We  did  our  utmost  to  console  him,  and 
to  inspire  him  with  new  hope,  but  he  was  incon- 
solable;  his  eyes  were  fixed,  he  had  fallen  into  a 
sort  of  apathy,  and  I  doubt  if  he  even  heard  what 
was  said  to  him.  We  ourselves  were  so  affected  that 
our  words  seemed  almost  to  choke  us.  Time  pressed, 
however;  it  was  impossible  for  us  to  remain  any 
longer,  nor  could  we  have  done  any  good  by  so  doing. 
We  shook  the  unfortunate  couple  by  the  hand,  prom- 
ised to  do  all  in  our  power  to  learn  something  of 
their  child's  fate,  and  took  our  departure. 


THE   STOLEN   CHILD.  153 

It  was  six  weeks  after  the  time  above  referred  to, 
that  I  found  myself  compelled  by  business  to  make 
a  journey  to  Natchez.  I  had  often  thought  of  poor 
Clarke's  misfortune,  and,  in  conjunction  with  my 
friends,  had  done  all  in  my  power  to  discover  the 
villain  who  had  robbed  him  of  his  child.  Hitherto 
all  our  endeavors  had  been  fruitless.  The  facts  were 
circulated  in  every  newspaper,  were  matter  of  con- 
versation at  every  tea  table  in  the  country ;  rewards 
were  offered,  researches  made,  but  not  the  smallest 
trace  of  the  boy  or  his  stealer  was  to  be  found. 

It  was  a  bright  January  afternoon  when  I  landed 
at  Natchez.  In  company  with  some  acquaintances,  I 
was  ascending  the  little  hill  between  the  lower  and 
upper  town,  when  we  heard  an  unusual  noise  and 
bustle ;  and  on  reaching  the  summit,  we  saw  a  crowd 
assembled  before  the  door  of  Justice  Bonner's  house. 
Upon  going  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  we  found 
that  the  mob  consisted  of  the  better  class  of  people 
in  Natchez,  both  women  and  men,  but  especially  the 
former.  Every  face  wore  an  expression  of  interest 
and  anxiety ;  and  upon  making  inquiry,  we  learned 
that  the  child  stealer  had  been  at  length  discovered ; 
or  rather,  that  a  man  had  been  taken  up  on  strong 
suspicion  of  his  having  stolen  Mr.  Clarke's  son,  of 
Hampstead  county.  I  was  heartily  rejoiced  at  the 


154  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

news,  and  endeavored  to  press  forward  through  the 
throng,  in  hopes  of  hearing  some  particulars ;  but  the 
crowd  was  so  dense  that  it  was  impossible  to  get 
through.  I  stood  there  for  nearly  two  hours,  the  con- 
course all  the  while  increasing,  none  stirring  from  the 
places  they  occupied,  while  every  adjacent  window 
was  filled  with  eager,  anxious  faces. 

At  last,  the  door  opened,  and  the  prisoner,  guarded 
by  two  constables,  and  followed  by  the  sheriff,  came 
out  of  the  house,  and  took  the  direction  of  the  town 
prison.  "  That  is  he !  "  whispered  the  women  to  one 
another,  with  pale  faces  and  trembling  voices,  clasp- 
ing their  children  tighter,  as  though  fearful  they  would 
be  snatched  from  them.  The  countenance  of  the  cul- 
prit was  the  most  repulsive  I  had  ever  seen  —  a 
mixture  of  brutal  obstinacy  and  low  cunning,  with  a 
sort  of  sneering,  grinning  expression.  His  small, 
green-gray  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  ground;  but  as 
he  passed  through  the  lane  opened  by  the  crowd,  he 
from  time  to  time  partially  raised  them,  and  threw 
sidelong  and  malicious  glances  at  the  bystanders.  He 
was  rather  above  the  middle  height,  his  complexion 
of  a  dirty-grayish  color,  his  cheeks  hollow,  his  lips 
remarkably  thick  and  coarse,  his  whole  appearance  in 
the  highest  degree  wild  and  disgusting.  His  dress 
consisted  of  an  old,  worn-out  blue  frock,  trousers  of 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  155 

the  same  color,  a  high-crowned,  shabby  hat,  and  tat- 
tered shoes.  The  impression  which  his  appearance 
made  might  be  read  in  the  pale  faces  of  the  specta- 
tors. They  gazed  after  him  with  a  sort  of  hopeless 
look  as  he  walked  away.  "  If  that  is  the  man  who 
stole  the  child,"  murmured  several,  "  there  is  no  hope. 
The  boy  is  lost ! "  I  extricated  myself  from  the 
throng,  and  hastened  to  Justice  Bonner,  with  whom  I 
was  acquainted,  and  who  gave  me  the  following  par- 
ticulars :  — 

About  four  weeks  after  our  excursion  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Hopefield,  Clarke  had  received  a  letter, 
signed  Thomas  Tully,  and  stamped  with  the  Natchez 
postmark.  The  contents  were  to  the  effect  that  his 
child  was  still  living;  that  the  writer  of  the  letter 
knew  where  he  was ;  and  that,  if  Mr.  Clarke  would 
enclose  a,  fifty  dollar  bank  note  in  his  answer,  he 
should  receive  further  information.  On  receipt  of  the 
said  sum,  the  writer  said  he  would  indicate  a  place 
to  which  Mrs.  Clarke  might  repair,  unaccompanied, 
and  there,  upon  payment  of  two  hundred  dollars  more, 
the  child  should  be  delivered  up. 

Upon  receiving  this  letter,  the  unfortunate  father 
consulted  with  his  friends  and  neighbors ;  and,  by 
their  advice,  he  wrote  immediately  to  the  postmastei 
a,t  Natchez,  informing  him  of  the  circumstances,  and 


156  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

requesting  that  the  person  who  applied  for  his  answer 
might  be  detained.  Four  days  afterwards,  a  man 
came  to  the  window  of  the  post  office,  and  inquired  if 
there  was  any  letter  to  the  address  of  Thomas  Tully. 
The  postmaster  pretended  to  be  searching  for  the 
letter  amongst  a  pile  of  others,  and  meanwhile  a 
constable,  who  was  in  attendance,  went  round  and 
captured  the  applicant.  Upon  the  examination  of  the 
latter,  it  appeared  that  he  was  an  Irishman,  who  had 
some  time  previously  been  hanging  about  Natchez, 
and  had  endeavored  to  establish  a  school  there.  As 
he,  however,  had  been  unable  to  give  any  satisfac- 
tory account  of  himself,  of  where  he  came  from,  or 
what  he  had  been  doing  up  to  that  time,  arid  as  his 
manner  and  appearance  were,  moreover,  in  the  high- 
est degree  suspicious  and  repulsive,  he  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  his  plan,  and  the  few  parents  who  sent 
their  children  to  him  had  speedily  withdrawn  them. 
He  was  known  at  Natchez  by  the  name  of  Thomas 
Tully,  nor  did  he  now  deny  that  that  was  his  name, 
or  that  he  had  sent  the  letter,  which  was  written  in 
a  practised  schoolmaster-like  hand.  It  was  further 
elicited  that  he  was  perfectly  acquainted  with  the 
paths  and  roads  between  Natchez  and  Hopefield,  and 
in  the  neighborhood  of  those  two  places,  as  well  as 
With  the  swamps,  creeks,  and  rivers  there  adjacent. 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  157 

He  was  fully  committed,  till  such  time  as  the  father 
of  the  stolen  child  should  be  made  acquainted  with 
the  result  of  the  examination. 

In  five  days,  Clarke  arrived  with  the  negro  boy 
Caesar.  The  whole  town  showed  the  greatest  sym- 
pathy with  the  poor  man's  misfortune :  the  lawyers 
offered  him  their  services  free  of  charge,  and  a  sec- 
ond examination  of  the  prisoner  took  place.  Every 
thing  possible  was  done  to  induce  the  latter  to  confess 
what  had  become  of  the  child ;  but  to  all  questions 
he  opposed  an  obstinate  silence.  The  negro  boy  did 
not  recognize  him.  At  last,  he  declared  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  stolen  child,  and  that  he  had  only 
written  the  letter  in  the  hope  of  extorting  money  from 
the  father.  Hardly,  however,  had  this  been  written 
down,  when  he  turned  to  Clarke,  witlj  an  infernal 
grin  upon  his  countenance,  and  said,  "  You  have  per- 
secuted and  hunted  me  like  a  wild  beast,  but  I  will 
make  you  yet  more  wretched  than  you  are  able  to 
make  me."  He  then  proceeded  to  inform  him  of  a 
certain  place  where  he  would  find  his  child's  clothes. 

Clarke  immediately  set  out  with  a  constable  to  the 
indicated  spot,  found  the  clothes  as  he  had  been  told 
he  would  do,  and  returned  to  Natchez.  The  accused 
was  again  put  at  the  bar,  and  said,  after  frequently 
contradicting  himself,  that  the  child  was  still  alive, 
14 


158  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

but  that,  if  they  kept  him  longer  in  prison,  it  would 
inevitably  die  of  hunger.  Nothing  could  persuade 
him  to  say  where  the  boy  was,  or  to  give  one  sylla- 
ble of  further  explanation. 

Meantime  the  quarter  sessions  commenced,  and  the 
prisoner  was  brought  up  for  trial.  An  immense  con- 
course of  persons  had  assembled  to  witness  the  pro- 
ceedings in  this  remarkable  case.  Every  thing  was 
done  to  induce  the  accused  to  confess,  but  all  in  vain. 
Promises  of  free  pardon,  and  even  of  reward,  were 
made  to  him,  if  he  told  where  the  child  was ;  but 
the  man  maintained  an  obstinate  silence.  He  at  last 
again  changed  his  story,  retracted  his  previous  decla- 
ration as  to  his  knowledge  of  where  the  boy  was,  said 
he  had  found  the  clothes,  which  he  had  recognized 
by  the  descriptions  that  had  been  every  where  adver- 
tised, and  that  it  was  that  which  had  put  it  into  his 
head  to  write  to  the  father,  in  hopes  of  making  his 
profit  by  so  doing.  In  the  absence  of  witnesses,  al- 
though there  was  strong  suspicion,  there  could  be  no 
proof  of  his  having  committed  the  crime  in  question. 
In  America,  circumstantial  evidence  is  always  received 
with  extreme  caution  and  reluctance ;  and  even  the 
fact  of  the  child's  clothes  having  been  found  in  the 
place  the  prisoner  had  pointed  out  was  insufficient  to 
induce  the  jury  to  find  the  latter  guilty  of  the  capital 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  159 

charge  brought  against  him.  Many  of  the  lawyers, 
indeed,  were  of  opinion  that  the  man's  last  story  was 
true,  that  he  had  found  the  clothes,  and,  being  a 
desperate  character  and  in  needy  circumstances,  had 
written  the  letter  for  purposes  of  extortion.  Of  this 
offence  only  was  he  found  guilty,  and  condemned,  as 
a  vagrant  and  impostor,  to  a  few  months'  imprison- 
ment. By  the  American  laws,  no  severer  punishment 
could  be  awarded.  This  one,  however,  was  far  from 
satisfying  the  public.  There  was  something  so  infer- 
nal in  the  malignant  sneer  of  the  culprit,  in  the  joy 
with  which  he  contemplated  the  sufferings  of  the  be- 
reaved father,  and  the  anxiety  of  the  numerous  friends 
of  the  latter,  that  a  shudder  of  horror  and  disgust 
had  frequently  run  through  the  court  during  the  trial. 
Even  the  coolest  and  most  practised  lawyers  had  not 
been  free  from  this  emotion,  and  they  declared  that 
they  had  never  witnessed  such  obduracy. 

The  inhabitants  of  Natchez,  especially  of  the  upper 
town,  are,  generally  speaking,  a  highly  intelligent  and 
respectable  class  of  people ;  but  upon  this  occasion 
they  lost  all  patience  and  self-control,  and  proceeded 
to  an  extreme  measure,  which  only  the  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances of  the  case  could  in  any  degree  justify. 
Without  previous  notice,  they  assembled  in  large  num- 
bers upon  the  night  of  the  31st  of  January,  with  a 


160  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

firm  determination  to  correct  for  once  the  mildness 
of  the  laws,  and  to  take  the  punishment  of  the  crim- 
inal into  their  own  hands.  They  opened  the  prison, 
brought  out  the  culprit,  and  after  tying  him  up,  a 
number  of  stout  negroes  proceeded  to  flog  him  se 
verely  with  whips  of  bullock's  hide. 

For  a  long  time,  the  man  bore  his  punishment  with 
extraordinary  -fortitude,  and  remained  obstinately  silent 
when  questions  were  put  to  him  concerning  the  stolen 
child.  At  last,  however,  he  could  bear  the  pain  no 
longer,  and  promised  a  full  confession.  He  named  a 
house  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi,  some  fifty 
miles  from  Natchez,  the  owner  of  which,  he  said, 
knew  where  the  child  was  to  be  found. 

The  sheriff  had,  of  course,  not  been  present  at  these 
Lynch-law  proceedings,  of  which  he  was  not  aware 
till  they  were  over,  but  of  which  he  probably  in  secret 
did  not  entirely  disapprove.  No  sooner,  however,  was 
he  told  of  the  confession  that  had  been  extorted  from 
the  prisoner,  than  he  set  off  at  once  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  accompanied  by  Clarke,  for  the  house 
that  had  been  pointed  out.  They  arrived  there  at 
noon  on  the  following  day,  and  found  it  inhabited  by 
a  respectable  family,  who  had  heard  of  the  child  hav- 
ing been  stolen,  but,  beyond  that,  knew  nothing  of  the 
matter.  The  "mere  suspicion  of  participation  in  sucb 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  161 

a  crime  seemed  in  the  highest  degree  painful  and  of- 
fensive to  them.  It  was  soon  made  evident  that  the 
prisoner  had  invented  the  story,  in  order  to  procure 
a  cessation  of  his  punishment  of  the  previous  night. 

The  fatigues  and  constant  disappointments  that  poor 
Clarke  had  endured  had  worn  him  out,  and  at  last 
again  stretched  him  on  a  bed  of  sickness.  His  life 
was  for  a  long  time  despaired  of,  but  he  finally  re- 
covered; and  shortly  afterwards  the  term  of  impris- 
onment to  which  the  child  stealer  (for  so  the  public 
persisted  an  considering  Tully)  had  been  condemned 
expired.  There  was  no  pretext  for  detaining  him, 
and  he  was  set  at  liberty.  Clarke  was  advised  to 
endeavor  to  obtain  from  him,  by  money  and  good 
treatment,  some  information  concerning  the  child. 
Both  father  and  mother  threw  themselves  at  the  man's 
feet,  implored  him  to  name  his  own  reward,  but  to 
tell  them  what  had  become  of  their  son. 

"  You  have  flogged  and  imprisoned  me,"  replied 
the  man,  with  one  of  his  malicious  grins ;  "  you  would 
have  hung  me  if  you  could ;  you  have  done  all  in  your 
power  to  make  me  miserable.  It  is  now  my  turn." 

And  he  obstinately  refused  to  say  a  word  on  the 
subject  of  the  lost  child.  He  left  the  town,  accom- 
panied by  Clarke,  who  clung  to  him  like  his  shadow, 
in  the  constant  hope  that  he  would  at  last  make  a 
14* 


162  THE    STOLEN    CHILD. 

revelation.  They  crossed  the  Mississippi  together, 
and  on  arriving  behind  Coneordia,  the  bereaved  father 
once  more  besought  Tully  to  tell  him  what  had  be- 
come of  his  son,  swearing  that,  if  he  did  not  do  so, 
he  would  dog  him  day  and  night,  but  that  he  should 
never  escape  alive  out  of  his  hands.  The  man  asked 
how  long  he  would  give  him.  "  Six  and  thirty  hours," 
was  the  reply.  Tully  walked  on  for  some  time  be- 
side Clarke  and  his  wife,  apparently  deep  in  thought. 
On  a  sudden,  he  sprang  upon  the  backwoodsman, 
snatched  a  pistol  from  his  belt,  and  fired  it  at  his 
head.  The  weapon  missed  fire.  Tully  saw  that  his 
murderous  attempt  had  failed,  and  apprehensive,  doubt- 
less, of  the  punishment  that  it  would  entail,  he  leaped, 
without  an  instant's  hesitation,  into  the  deepest  part 
of  a  creek  by  which  they  were  walking.  He  sank 
immediately,  the  water  closed  over  his  head,  and  he 
did  not  once  reappear.  His  body  was  found  a  couple 
of  hours  afterwards,  but  no  trace  was  ever  discovered 
of  the  Stolen  Child.* 

*  Various  particulars  of  the  above  incident  may  be  found  in 
the  Mississippi  newspapers  of  the  years  1825-6. 


FORGET-ME-NOT. 

FROM  PLATEN. 

Two  lovers  strayed,  at  day's  calm  close, 

Along  a  lake's  green  shore, 
Love's  tale  of  mingled  joys  and  woes, 

Oft  told,  still  telling  o'er. 
In  heaven  already  Hesper  shone, 
Yet  hand  in  hand  they  wandered  on, 

Fair  dreams  around  them  floating. 

"  Ah,"  said  she,  "  wilt  thou  me  embrace, 

Kind  as  to-day,  to-morrow  ? 
And  ne'er  for  us  will  joy's  bright  face 

Grow  dark  with  clouds  of  sorrow  ?  " 
"  Yes,  as  to-day  e'en  so  forever ! 
Fate  cannot  love's  firm  union  sever," 

The  fearful  one  he  answered. 

"  'Tis  well,"  she  cried ;  "  thus  swear  I  now, 

To  thee  my  heart  is  given. 
Hear,  Heaven!  and  register  my  vow; 

For  love  is  heard  in  heaven. 


164  FORGET-ME-NOT. 

Yes,  let  it  soar  to  God  afar, 
Who  haply  yon  first  golden  star 
Hath  for  his  throne  selected. 

"  O,  seest  thou  there  upon  the  strand 
Those  fair  blue  flowerets  blowing? 

Meet  type,  methinks,  they  yonder  stand 
Of  hearts  with  true  love  glowing. 

They  blossom  there  so  soft,  so  calm, 

The  angry  waters  fear  to  harm 
Their  unobtrusive  beauty. 

"  Beloved,  gather  one  for  me, 

To  be  my  breast's  adorning." 
She  spake,  the  youth  fled  joyously, 

But  never  came  returning. 
The  lake's  steep  bank  the  flowerets  crowned, 
And  when  the  maiden  came,  she  found 

Amid  the  waves  her  lover. 

Yes,  there,  beyond  the  reach  of  aid, 

Embraced  by  death  he  stood ; 
The  shore  his  heedless  steps  betrayed, 

And  plunged  into  the  flood. 
The  gurgling  waters  round  him  swelled, 

But  still  with  lifted  arm  he  held 

•> 

Above  the  waves  a  flower. 


FORGET-ME-NOT.  165 

"To  die  for  thee,  my  love,  is  sweet; 

Yet  quickly  me  pursuing, 
O'er  yon  bright  star  soon  let  us  meet, 

And  love  have  sweet  renewing ; 
And  hear  me,  ere  the  waters  blot 
Thee  from  my  sight,  Forget-me-not!" 

He  said,  and  sunk  forever. 

But  gently  from  his  sinking  hand 

The  waters  washed  the  flower, 
Which  drifted  to  the  neighboring  strand, 

Drawn  by  magnetic  power. . 
She  raised  it  thence,  and  weeping  pressed 
The  fatal  blossom  to  her  breast, 

In  woe  that  mocked  controlling. 

Then  turning  from  her  lover's  grave, 

The  mourning  one  departed, 
To  fade  like  the  last  gift  he  gave, 

All  lone  and  broken  hearted. 
Now  both  in  heaven  have  happier  lot, 
And  called  since  then  Forget-me-not 

Has  bee.n  thit  small  blue  flower. 


WHAT    SHALL    I    DO? 

BY  J.   8.   A. 

"O,  WHAT  shall  I  do?"   said  Rosell,  with  a  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lip,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye ; 
"  For,  lo,  he  hath  sent  for  my  miniature  now, 
And  soon  he  will  send  for  the  pearls  on  my  brow ; 
Then  he  will  want  that  which  no  one  has  got 
Save   myself — what  is   it?  —  Ah,  you   must  guess 
what. 

"  Here  is  his  letter  —  'tis  really  provoking ; 
I  almost  believe  the  fellow  is  joking: 
He  praises  my  form,  calls  my  face  veiy  fair, 
Expatiates  some  on  the  shade  of  my  hair ; 
He  talks  of  my  eyes  in  a  rapture  of  bliss, 
And  wonders  if  I  would  refuse  him  — a  kiss. 
And,  0,  what  a  flatterer  !  I  can't  understand 
Why  he  should  call  mine  '  a  lily-white  hand. ' 
lily  *  eyes  so  enchanting,'  my  '  features  so  true,' 
I  don't  think  them  any  thing  extra  —  do  you? 


WHAT    SHALL    I   DO  ?  167 

"  He  says  he  is  coming  precisely  at  four, 
And  wants  me  to  meet  him  at  the  hall  door. 
Now,  what  shall  I  do  ?     Shall  I  answer  his  call, 
And  bound  like  a  roe  the  whole  length  of  the  hall, 
Grasp  his  warm  hand  with  the  fervor  of  passion, 
Disobey  every  commandment  of  fashion  ? 
He'd  think  that  I  loved  if  I  thus  before  him 
Should  appear.     Well,  I  do  almost  adore  him ; 
But  you  know,  we  young  ladies  do  love  the  perplexing 
Of  men,  and  our  aim  is  to  ever  be  vexing 
Their  souls  with  innumerable  doubts  and  disasters, 
And  thus  of  the  '  lords  of  creation '  be  masters. 

"  Ah !  quite  insensibly,  while  I've  been  sighing, 
It  has  come  from  my  neck :  by  the  letter  'tis  lying, 
As  though  it  would  chide  me  for  being  so  loath 
Of  having  it  go  on  a  love-errand  forth. 

"  Listen !  a  footstep ;  a  coach  at  the  gate ; 

I  know  it  is  Charles,  for,  unwilling  to  wait, 

He  enters  unaided ;  and  now  at  the  door 

He  stands,  and  the  old  village  clock  striketh  four. 

"  I  know  what  I'll  do.     Yes,  I've  made  up  my  mind, 
And  no  one  can  change  it  in  one  of  my  kind. 
Regardless  of  every  incentive  of  pelf, 
I'll  give  him  the  miniature,  pearls,  and  —  myself." 


BRIDGET    PATHLOW. 

To  work  out  an  honest  purpose,  in  spite  of  oppo« 
sition,  misfortune,  penury,  taking  no  heed  of  scorn, 
no  heed  of  ridicule ;  to  say  that  you  who  now  despise 
shall  yet  respect,  you  who  scorn  shall  yet  have  bene- 
fit;  to  say  these  things  and  do  them,  is  to  present 
human  nature  in  a  form  which  sooner  or  later  must 
obtain  universal  sympathy.  In  this  virtue  a  world 
of  hope  lies  hidden,  even  for  the  meanest ;  for,  in 
being  honest  to  ourselves,  we  create  a  power  of  hon- 
estly serving  others. 

In  the  town  of  Lincoln  there  lived,  some  years  ago, 
a  man  of  the  name  of  Pathlow,  who,  having  served 
in  the  army,  had  retired,  at  the  close  of  the  war,  upon 
a  small  pension.  He  belonged  to  what  is  commonly 
called  a  good  family,  was  proud  of  this  relationship, 
and  having  dissipated  his  little  patrimony,  and  made 
an  ill-assorted  marriage,  had  entered  the  army,  not 
with  the  desire  to  serve,  but  as  the  only  means  he 
had  of  finding  to-day  or  to-morrow's  bread.  Afte* 


BRIDGET   PATHLOW.  169 

many  struggles  between  poverty  and  pride,  debt  and 
disgrace,  he  settled  in  Lincoln,  when  he  was  some  years 
past  middle  life.  Here  the  old  course  was  run.  Fine 
houses  were  taken,  fine  appearances  made ;  but  these, 
unlike  the  three  degrees  of  comparison,  did  rather  be- 
gin with  the  largest  and  end  with  the  smallest;  so 
that,  when  our  tale  commences,  the  fine  house  in  the 
finest  street  had  dwindled  into  a  mean  habitation, 
that  could  only  boast  its  neighborhood  to  the  minster, 
where,  shadowed  by  some  antique  trees,  and  within 
sound  of  the  minster's  bell,  it  was  the  birthplace  of 
Bridget  Pathlow. 

There  were  two  brothers  several  years  older  than 
Bridget,  born  before  Pathlow  had  settled  in  Lincoln, 
and  on  whose  education  he  had  spent  all  available 
means ;  for,  as  he  had  great  promises  from  great  re- 
lations, he  destined  them  to  be  gentlemen.  Besides 
these  two,  Bridget  had  another  brother,  some  years 
younger  than  herself,  who,  being  born,  like  her,  during 
the  poverty  and  ill  fortunes  of  the  parents,  was  looked 
upon  with  no  favorable  or  loving  eye. 

Whilst  the  elder  brothers  were  better  clad,  well 
taught,  inditing  pleasant  epistles  to  far-off  relations, 
poor  Tom  and  Bridget  Pathlow  were  the  household 
drudges.  To  do  dirty  work  ;  to  repel  needy  creditors  ; 
to  deny  with  the  prompted  lie;  to  steal  along  the 
15 


370  BRIDGET    PATHLOW. 

streets,  and,  with  the  heart's  blood  in  her  face,  to 
hear  the  unpaid  tradesman  dishonor  her  father's 
name ;  to  sit  by  the  fireless  hearth,  or  by  the  window 
to  watch  her  father's  return,  who,  urged  for  money, 
would  perhaps  keep  from  home  whole  nights,  having 
first  told  Bridget  that  he  should  not  return  alive ;  to 
watch  through  those  hours  of  mental  pain,  and  yet  in 
this  very  loneliness,  in  these  childish  years,  to  have 
one  never-failing  belief  of  being  by  self-help  not  al- 
ways so  very  sorrowful  or  so  despised, — surely  made 
this  young  child  no  unworthy  dweller  under  the  shadow 
of  the  olden  minster.  Tom  was  not  half  so  resolute 
as  Bridget,  nor  so  capable  of  endurance. 

The  elder  brothers  left  home  when  Bridget  and 
Tom  were  not  more  than  eleven  and  eight  years  old. 
No  love  had  been  fostered  between  these  elder  ami 
younger  children ;  yet  in  the  heart  of  Bridget  much 
was  garnered.  Now  that  they  were  alone,  the  chil- 
dren were  more  together,  the  household  drudgery  was 
shared  between  them,  as  well  as  the  cares  and  sor- 
rows of  their  miserable  home,  and  the  stolen  play 
round  the  minster  aisles,  where  many,  who  despised 
the  parents,  said  kind  words  to  the  children.  Design- 
ing her  for  some  humble  employment,  where  the 
weekly  gain  of  two  or  three  shillings  would  supply 
the  momentary  want,  Captain  Pathlow  (as  he  waa 


BRIDGET    PATHLOW.  171 

called)  denied  Bridget  any  better  education  than  such 
as  was  afforded  by  a  school,  the  weekly  fees  of  which 
were  sixpence  ;  but  she  had  a  kind  friend  in  an  old 
glass  stainer,  who  lived  hard  by,  and  another  in  his 
son,  a  blind  youth,  who  was  allowed  to  play  upon 
the  minster  organ.  As  a  return  to  this  poor  youth 
for  some  few  lessons  in  organ  playing,  Bridget  would 
carry  home  each  evening  the  key  of  a  little  postern 
door,  (which  a  kind  prebend  had  lent  him,)  and  by 
which  private  access  was  gained  to  the  cloisters.  So 
often  did  Bridget  carry  back  that  key,  that  at  last, 
becoming  a  sort  of  privileged  person,  she  was  allowed 
to  come  through  the  garden,  which,  shadowed  by  the 
cloister  walls,  lay  pleasant  before  the  prebend's  quaint 
study  window.  The  old  man,  looking  up  often  from 
his  book,  and  remembering  that  in  Lincoln  her  fa- 
tfier's  name  was  linked  to  all  meanness  and  disgrace, 
would  wonder  to  see  her  push  back  from  the  over 
hanging  boughs  the  ripe  apples,  or  the  luscious  grapes, 
untouched,  untasted ;  so,  judging  from  small  thjngs,  he 
took  to  heart  that  this  poor  Bridget  had  a  touch  of 
nobleness  about  her.  From  this  time  he  observed 
her  more  narrowly.  Hurrying  across  the  garden,  she 
yet  always  lingered  (particularly  if  the  shadows  of 
evening  were  low)  to  look  at  one  piece  of  wood  carv- 
ing, which,  projecting  from  the  old  cloister  wall,  looked 


172  BRIDGET    PATHLOW. 

in  the  waning  light  like  the  drooping  ivy  it  mimicked. 
One  night  the  old  man  questioned  her,  and  said  he 
should  like  to  be  her  friend,  to  have  her  taught,  to 
serve  her. 

"I  thank  you  much,  sir,"  said  she;  "but  if " 

Shs  stopped  abruptly. 

«  If  what,  Bridget  ?  " 

"  If  I  could  sew  or  earn "     She  stopped  again. 

"  Well,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling,  "  I  see  you  are 
a  good  girl,  Bridget.  There  are,  if  I  remember 
what  my  housekeeper  said,  six  Holland  shirts  to  make, 
which " 

"  I  will  do  them.  To-morrow  night  I  will  come ; 
for  I  have  a  purpose  to  serve,  which  will  make  me 
work  with  a  ready  finger." 

She  was  gone  before  the  old  man  could  answer. 
The  morrow  and  the  morrow's  night  saw  that  poor 
child  plying  the  quick  needle,  whilst  brother  Tom 
guarded  the  chamber  door,  lest  a  gleam  of  the  candle 
should  betray  the  solitary  and  hidden  task. 

Unknown  to  Bridget,  the  worthy  prebend  made  to 
Captain  Pathlow  an  offer  of  serving  his  child.  But 
this  offer  was  repulsed  with  bitter  scorn.  "  He  had 
rich  relations,"  he  said,  "  who  could  serve  Bridget, 
without  her  being  a  pauoer.  For  the  rest,  no  one 
had  a  right  to  interfere." 


BRIDGET   PATHLOW.  173 

Bridget  was  henceforth  forbidden  even  to  quit  the 
house.  But  the  six  fine  Holland  shirts  were  at  length 
completed  and  carried  home ;  Tom  returning  the 
happy  bearer  of  a  bright,  shining  piece  of  gold.  This 
was  soon  laid  out.  In  what  ?  Bridget  knew  best, 
for  she  still  worked  on  by  night. 

Returning  home  late  one  evening,  the  father  ob- 
served the  gleaming  light  from  the  lone  garret  window, 
ind  creeping  upon  the  two  children  unseen,  not  only 
paralyzed  them  with  fear,  but  holding  in  the  candle's 
flame  the  diligent  work  of  many  weeks,  the  fruition 
of  that  child's  earliest  desire,  that  fruit  of  an  honest 
purpose,  —  no  dainty  piece  of  needlework  was  it,  but 
the  drawn  image,  leaf  by  leaf,  of  the  curious  carv- 
ing,—burnt  it  to  ashes. 

"  If  you  can  work,"  he  said  fiercely,  "  there  are 
milliners  in  Lincoln  who  want  errand  girls.  Ha  !  ha ! 
two  shillings  a  week  will  add  ale  to  our  night's 
meal ! " 

The  girl  was  only  saved  from  this  destiny  by  the 
arrival  one  Saturday,  during  dinner  time,  of  a  very 
large  letter  sealed  with  black,  which,  being  opened, 
was  found1  to  have  come  from  the  elder  brother,  who, 
stating  the  death  of  an  uncle,  advised  that  Bridget 
should  be  sent  immediately  upon  a  speculative  visit 
to  the  widowed  aunt.  This  was  food  of  a  right  kind 
15* 


174  BRIDGET    PATHLOW. 

to  Pathlow ;  he  began  its  digestion  immediately.  "  You 
must  say  good  words  for  us,  Bridget  —  good  words. 
Hint  that  a  suit  of  clothes,  or  a  five  pound  note,  will 
be  acceptable  to  me,  and  a  new  silk  gown  to  your 
mother ;  and,  in  short,  any  thing." 

The  girl's  few  miserable  clothes  were  soon  packed 
within  one  narrow  box,  a  letter  written  to  the  guard 
of  the  coach,  which  was  to  convey  her  from  London 
into  the  western  provinces,  to  say,  that  her  relation 
would  pay  at  the  end  of  the  journey.  Dear  Tom 
parted  with  a  copy,  on  paper,  of  that  rare  carving, 
laid  secretly  on  the  prebend's  reading  desk,  and  on 
the  morrow  after  the  letter  came,  Bridget  saw  the 
last  glimpse  of  Lincoln  minster.  Her  eldest  brother  — • 
he  who  had  written  the  letter  —  lived  in  London,  a 
gay,  apparently  rich,  gentleman,  studying,  it  was  said, 
for  a  physician,  if  study  he  ever  did ;  but  as  Bridget 
had  been  forewarned  not  to  make  her  appearance  at 
his  lodgings  during  the  day,  she  was  forced  to  stop 
till  night  came  within  the  garret  chamber  assigned  to 
her  at  the  inn  where  the  coach  had  staid.  With 
that  apology  for  a  trunk,  —  small  as  it  was,  it  would 
have  held  the  wardrobes  of  three  Bridgets,  —  mounted 
on  the  burly  shoulders  of  an  herculean  porter,  the  girl 
found  her  brother's  home.  She  had  expected  to  see 
rich  apartments,  but  none  so  rich  as  these,  where, 


BRIDGET   PATHLOW.  175 

surrounded  by  all  the  semblance  of  aristocratic  life, 
her  brother  lay  stretched  upon  a  sofa  sipping  his 
wine,  and  reading  the  evening  paper. 

"  Well,"  was  his  greeting,  "  you're  come ; "  and 
then  he  went  on  with  his  paper. 

These  words  fell  chill  upon  the  girl's  heart ;  but 
she  knew  she  was  his  sister,  and  she  knelt  to  kiss 
him.  "  Dear  Richard,  dear  brother,  I  have  so  counted 
on  this  hour.  They  all  send  their  love  —  Tom,  and 
Saul,  and " 

"  There,  that'll  do.  Go  and  sit  down.  These  things 
are  low ;  you  must  forget  them  all.  But,  faugh !  how 
you're  dressed !  Did  any  one  see  you  as  you  came 
in  ?  " 

The  answer  was  satisfactory :  so  the  reading  went  on. 

"  You  must  forget  these  Lincoln  people  altogether," 
he  said,  after  a  while  ;  "  you  are  going  to  be  a  lady, 
and  the  memory  of  poverty  sits  ill  upon  such.  Mind, 
I  warn  you  to  have  a  still  tongue.  For  the  rest, 
make  yourself  comfortable ;  say  black  is  black,  and 
white  white.  A  very  good  maxim,  I  assure  you,  for 
a  dependant." 

"  Can  happiness  come  from  such  belief,  or  future 
good  ?  "  asked  Bridget.  "  Can " 

"  There,  that'll  do ;  I  never  discuss  points  with 
children.  Talk  the  matter  over  with  the  next  maid 


176  BRIDGET    PATHLOW. 

servant,  or  reserve  it  for  private  meditation  when  you 
are  upon  the  top  of  the  coach." 

Bridget  had  little  to  say  after  this,  and  a  late  hour 
of  that  same  night  found  her  journeying  to  the  west- 
ern province,  where  her  widowed  relation  dwelt.  At 
length,  on  the  second  morning  after  leaving  London, 
she  found  herself  in  a  country  town,  in  a  gay  street, 
standing  upon  a  scrupulously  clean  step,  knocking 
upon  a  very  bright  knocker,  not  only  for  her  own 
admittance,  but  for  that  of  the  scantily-freighted  box. 
A  demure-looking  servant  appeared,  who,  taking  in 
to  her  mistress  the  introductory  letter  which  the  elder 
Pathlow  had  indited,  being,  as  he  had  said,  the  fishing 
hook  whereby  to  catch  the  fish,  left  the  Lincoln  girl 
to  a  full  hour's  doubt  as  to  whether  she  should  have 
to  retrace  her  way  to  Lincoln,  or  be  received  as  the 
poor  dependant.  It  seemed  that  her  unexpected  ar- 
rival had  created  much  discussion ;  for  loud  voices 
were  heard  in  a  neighboring  parlor.  The  dispute, 
rising  into  a  storm,  was  only  stayed  by  Bridget's  be- 
ing ordered  into  the  presence  of  the  bereaved  widow, 
who,  being  of  substantial  form,  sat  in  a  capacious 
chair,  with  a  plentiful  flow  of  lawn  before  her  weep- 
ing face.  She  was  surrounded  by  several  relatives, 
each  of  whom  had  children  to  recommend ;  but  wish- 
ing to  exhibit  her  power,  and  triumph  over  their 


BRIDGET   PATHLOW  177 

greedy  expectations,  she  rose,  and  throwing  herself 
upon  the  astonished  girl's  neck,  made  visible  election 
of  a  dependant.  Foiled  in  their  purpose,  the  relations 
disappeared.  The  widow,  like  a  child  pleased  with  a 
toy,  made  for  a  while  much  of  the  poor  Lincoln  girl : 
old  dresses  were  remodelled,  old  bonnets  cunningly 
trimmed,  by-gone  fashions  descanted  on,  till,  to  crown 
the  whole,  the  girl  wished  back  her  Lincoln  rags, 
rather  than  walk  the  streets  to  be  gazed  at  by  every 
passer  by.  In  this  matter  there  was  no  appeal ; 
there  never  is  against  dogged  self-opinion  or  selfish 
cunning.  Pleased  with  having  one  on  whom  to  wreak 
a  world  of  spite,  the  widow  soon  changed  her  first 
show  of  kindness  to  taunts,  reproaches  proportionate 
to  the  loneliness  and  dependence  of  the  child.  Months 
went  by  without  one  solitary  gleam  of  happiness,  for 
books  or  learning  were  forbidden  ;  added  to  all  this, 
too,  were  perpetual  secret  letters  from  her  home, 
urging  her  to  send  money.  But  there  was  no  mean- 
ness in  Bridget ;  she  could  endure,  but  not  crave  un- 
worthily. Things  had  gone  on  thus  for  a  twelvemonth, 
when,  one  winter's  day,  the  widow  came  back,  after  a 
week's  absence,  a  gay  bride ;  and  that  same  night 
Bridget  was  sent  back  on  her  way  to  Lincoln,  with  five 
shillings  in  her  pocket  over  and  above  the  coach  hire. 
Bridget  had  a  fellow-passenger,  who,  having  travelled 


178  BRIDGET    PATHLOW. 

far,  and  being  young,  and  troubled  with  a  child,  was 
much  pleased  with  the  thousand  little  kindnesses  that 
the  girl  performed ;  so  that,  before  the  journey  to 
London  was  ended,  a  vast  friendship  was  established 
between  them.  They  parted  with  much  regret ;  for, 
to  one  like  Bridget,  so  lonely,  so  destitute  of  friends, 
the  mere  semblance  of  kindness  was  a  treasure  in 
itself.  She  had  sat  some  time  in  the  office  waiting 
for  the  Lincoln  coach,  —  not  without  comfort,  for  the 
bookkeeper  had  stirred  up  the  office  fire,  and,  sus 
pecting  her  scanty  purse,  had  supplied  her  with  a 
glass  of  warm  ale  and  a  toast,  —  when  a  pale  but 
respectable-looking  man  entered,  and  saying  that  he 
was  the  husband  of  Bridget's  fellow-passenger,  had 
come  to  offer  her  the  comfort  of  his  home  for  a  day 
or  so,  as  a  return  for  her  kindness  to  his  wife  and 
child.  After  some  little  deliberation,  Bridget  accepted 
the  offer,  for  she  dreaded  to  return  home  without 
having  written  to  say  that  -  she  was  coming ;  so  an 
hour  afterwards,  Bridget  sat  with  a  baby  on  her  knee, 
by  the  side  of  her  fellow-passenger,  in  a  comfortable 
second-floor  room,  in  a  street  leading  from  Long  Acre. 
Never  was  such  a  tea  prepared  as  on  this  memorable 
night,  never  such  a  hearth,  never  such  a  baby,  never 
such  a  happy  young  wife,  never  such  a  wondering 
Bridget;  for  here  seemed  the  visible  presence  of  all 


BRIDGET   PATHLOW.  179 

riches  her  heart  had  ever  craved ;  here  in  this  work- 
ing chamber  of  a  Long  Acre  herald  painter.  Here, 
too,  without  wealth,  was  the  power  of  mind  made 
visible ;  here,  in  this  chamber  of  the  artisan.  A  few 
cheap  books  nicely  arranged,  a  few  prints,  rich  pan- 
elled escutcheons,  and  cunning  tracery,  that  brought 
to  mind  old  things  in  Lincoln  minster,  covered  the 
walls.  These  things  stood  out  like  the  broad  written 
words  of  hope  and  perseverance. 

Bridget  had  never  been  so  happy.  On  the  morrow, 
a  letter  was  despatched ;  but  the  answer  was  one  of 
bitter  reproach,  harsh  threats.  It  bore  no  invitation 
to  return ;  and  when  it  said  that  Tom  had  left  Lin- 
coln, Bridget  had  no  desire  to  do  so.  The  stay  of  a 
few  days  was  lengthened  into  one  of  months  ;  for  when 
her  good  friends  knew  her  history,  —  all  of  it,  sav 
ing  her  love  of  art,  —  they  could  but  pity,  which  pity, 
ripening  into  estimation  as  her  character  became  more 
known,  turned  friendship  into  love.  We  draw  no 
romantic  character,  but  one  of  real  truth.  Bridget 
was  the  busiest  and  cheerfulest ;  up  early,  so  that 
the  hearth  was  clean,  the  breakfast  ready,  the  baby 
neatly  dressed ;  and  this  not  done  for  once,  but  al- 
ways ;  so  that  Bridget  became  a  necessary  part  of  the 
household  in  Long  Acre.  By  and  by,  when  she  was 
found  to  possess  an  aptitude  for  drawing,  the  artisan 


180  BRIDGET   PATHLOW. 

set  busily  to  work,  and  by  the  evening  fire  paid  back, 
in  teaching,  her  honest  service.  An  upturned  cup,  a 
book,  a  jug,  were  drawn ;  and  when  these  were  per- 
fect, things  of  greater  difficulty  were  sketched.  Her 
progress  was  but  slow,  yet  so  perfect,  that  in  a  few 
months'  time  she  was  a  real  help  to  her  master ;  and 
when  he  fell  into  bad  health,  and  had  to  work  at 
home,  she  assisted  to  bring  bread  to  that  poor  house- 
hold. The  artisan  grew  no  better,  but  lingering  week 
by  week  in  a  consumption,  was  each  day  less  able  to 
perform  the  work  which,  being  of  a  rare  and  delicate 
kind,  his  master  would  intrust  to  no  other  hand. 

One  week  (the  week  before  he  died)  a  crest  of  rare 
device  had  to  be  painted  on  the  panels  of  a  rich 
city  merchant's  carriage.  No  hand  could  execute  it 
like  that  of  the  dying  man ;  but  his  hand  was  past 
work,  though  the  mind  could  still  invent ;  and  Bridget, 
who  knew  that,  but  for  this  work  being  done,  no  bread 
could  come,  knelt,  and  by  his  bed  earned  what  was 
last  eaten  by  that  dying  man.  The  work  excelled 
the  master's  hope ;  he  wondered  more  when,  with  that 
artisan's  last  breath,  he  learned  the  act  of  mercy,  how 
done  and  by  whom.  Bridget  reaped  good  fruit :  when 
she  had  lost  one  friend,  when  his  widow  and  child 
had  left  London  for  the  country,  the  good  old  master 
eoaehmaker  took  Bridget  home  into  veritable  Long 


BRIDGET   PATHLOW.  181 

Acre  itself.  He  was  not  rich ;  but  paying  Bridget 
for  all  her  services,  she  had  money  wherewith  to  take 
new  lessons  in  art,  —  to  begin  the  learning  of  wood 
engraving,  in  which  she  afterwards  rarely  excelled, — 
to  lay  by  four  bright  gold  pounds,  as  the  means  of 
seeing  Lincoln  once  again.  They  had  never  written 
to  her  from  home,  never  for  years ;  but  still  her  heart 
clung  to  those  old  memories  which  had  encompassed 
her  childhood. 

She  was  now  seventeen.  It  was  a  bright  May 
morning  when  she  travelled  onward  to  the  minster 
town.  How  her  heart  beat  audibly,  when,  by  the 
waning  evening  light,  the  home  even  of  that  misera- 
ble childhood  was  seen  again !  Lifting  the  latch,  she 
stole  into  the  house ;  but  no  happy  voice,  no  greeting 
met  her  ear :  all  that  was  said  was,  "  Well,  you're 
come  at  last."  But  by  and  by,  when  it  was  hinted 
that  the  larder  was  empty,  and  the  relic  of  those  four 
bright  pounds  were  seen,  more  civil  words  were  heard, 
which,  warming  into  a  full  tide  of  kindness,  lasted, 
veritably  lasted,  till  the  last  shilling  was  spent ;  then  — 
then  laughing  her  poverty  to  scorn,  she  was  ordered 
to  travel  back  to  London  in  the  best  fashion  she  could. 

The  good  old  prebend  was  absent  from  Lincoln ;  so 
it  was  only  from  poor  blind  Saul  she  could  borrow  a 
scanty  sum,  which  sum  was  the  more  needful,  as  she 
16 


182  BRIDGET   PATHLOW. 

had  to  travel  out  of  the  high  road  to  a  little  town 
where  her  dear  brother  Tom  now  lived.  He  had  run 
away  from  home  soon  after  Bridget  had  left,  and, 
after  many  ups  and  downs  in  those  few  years,  was 
now  become  half  clerk,  half  servant,  in  the  house  of 
a  country  attorney.  His  nature  was  more  passive 
than  that  of  Bridget,  more  yielding,  less  energetic : 
having  been  from  childhood  weak  in  body,  he  had 
scarcely  bettered  his  condition  in  changing  one  scene 
of  drudgery  for  another.  In  the  little  parlor  of  the 
country  inn,  his  long,  sad  tale  of  passive  suffering  was 
told  to  the  sister's  ear.  If  she  wept,  it  was  but  for 
a  moment ;  then  talking  cheerfully  of  what  the  future 
should  be  —  how  they  would  work  together,  how  they 
would  be  dear  friends,  how  they  in  London  would  have 
one  common  home,  and  asking  nothing  from  the  world, 
still  pay  to  it  one  never-failing  debt  of  cheerfulness 
and  sympathy ;  how  they  would  do  all  this  they  said 
so  many  times,  that  the  supper  grew  cold,  and  poor 
feeble  Tom  laughed  outright.  They  parted  that  sum- 
mer's night ;  there  was  comfort  when  Bridget  promised 
that  a  letter  should  come  soon.  She  did  not  even 
hint  the  joy  that  should  be  in  it. 

Once  more  in  London,  she  began  that  very  week 
to  build  a  home  for  Tom.  By  a  little  help  from  her 
Long  Acre  friends,  she  procured  some  few  pupils, 


•  BRIDGET   PATHLOW.  183 

whose  parents,  being  ambitious  to  adorn  their  parlor 
walls  at  the  cheapest  rate,  had  their  children  initiated 
into  the  mysteries  of  art  at  sixpence  the  lesson.  Six- 
teen lessons  a  week  made  eight  shillings  —  little,  enough 
to  exist  upon ;  but  it  yet  hired  a  room  and  bought 
bread,  and  something  like  the  consciousness  of  inde- 
pendence. At  night,  too,  there  were  hours  to  work  in ; 
and  then  the  practice  of  wood  engraving  went  nimbly  on. 
In  returning  home  once  a  week,  from  a  distant  part 
of  London,  Bridget  had  to  pass  in  an  obscure  street 
an  old  bookstall.  She  sometimes  stopped  to  look  upon 
it ;  she  always  did  so  when  she  had  seen  upon  it  an 
old  thumbed  copy  of  Bewick's  British  Birds.  In 
those  rare  tailpieces,  that  never  were  surpassed,  one 
who  knew  all  the  difficulties  of  the  art  found  infinite 
delight.  She  was  observed  one  evening  by  a  gentle- 
man who  had  come  up  to  the  bookstall  some  minutes 
after  Bridget ;  like  her,  too,  he  was  curious  in  art, 
and  wondered  what  this  young  poor-clad  female  could 
find  of  interest  in  one  or  two  small  pictured  pages, 
not  hastily  turned  over,  but  dwelt  upon  long,  minute 
after  minute.  He  followed,  but  her  light  step  soon 
left  him  far  behind :  he  came  again  —  there  she  was, 
on  the  same  day  week,  with  that  same  old  thumbed 
Bewick.  Weeks  went  by  in  this  manner,  till  the 
stall  keeper,  remembering  her  often-seen  face,  bade  her 


184  BRIDGET    PATHLOW. 

"  buy  or  else  not  touch  the  books  again ; "  and  End- 
get,  creeping  away  like  one  guilty  of  a  misdeed,  saw 
not  that  the  curious  gentleman  had  bought  the  books, 
and  now  followed  her  with  speedy  foot.  This  time 
he  might  have  found  her  home,  but  that,  in  a  street 
leading  into  Holborn,  some  papers  fell  from  the  little 
roll  of  drawings  she  carried ;  he  stooped  to  pick  them 
up  —  in  the  moment  of  glancing  at  them  she  was  lost 
to  sight. 

Now  that  night  labor  had  made  her  somewhat  pro- 
ficient in  the  art,  she  tried  to  get  employment ;  but 
for  weeks  without  success.  Specimens  sent  in  to  en- 
gravers were  returned,  letters  to  publishers  unheeded ; 
letters  or  specimens  from  Long  Acre  were  of  a  surety 
inadmissible.  The  master  who  had  taught  her  was 
dead.  At  last  there  was  pointed  out  to  her  an  ad 
vertisement  in  one  of  the  daily  papers,  that  engravers 
upon  wood  were  wanted  for  the  designs  of  a  cheap 
publication.  There  was  reference  to  a  person  of  whom 
Bridget  had  heard ;  so,  sending  first  for  permission, 
she  was  introduced  to  the  advertiser.  A  subject  for 
illustration  was  chosen,  and  a  pencil  placed  in  her 
hand.  When  the  design  came  out  visibly  from  the 
paper,  the  advertiser,  shaking  his  head,  said  he  would 
consider.  This  consideration  took  some  weeks  ;  mean 
while  a  sleepless  pillow  was  that  of  poor  Bridget 


BRIDGET   PATHLOW.  185 

At  last  the  answer  came ;  he  would  employ  her,  but 
at  a  very  moderate  remuneration.  Yet  here  was  hope, 
clear  as  the  noonday's  sun ;  here  was  the  first  bright- 
beaded  drop  in  the  cup  of  the  self-helper ;  here  was 
hope  for  Tom ;  here  matter  for  the  promised  letter. 
The  work  done,  the  remuneration  coming  in,  the 
fruition  came ;  new  yet  humble  rooms  were  hired, 
second-hand  furniture  bought  piece  by  piece ;  and  it 
was  a  proud  night  when,  alone  in  her  still  chamber, 
the  poor  despised  Lincoln  girl  thanked  Heaven  for 
its  holy  mercy. 

The  proverb  tells  us  that  good  fortune  is  never 
single-handed.  On  the  morrow,  —  it  was  a  wet  and 
rainy  day,  —  Bridget,  in  passing  into  Spring  Gardens, 
observed  that  the  stall  of  a  poor  lame  apple  woman 
had  been  partly  overturned  by  some  rude  urchin. 
She  stopped  to  help  the  woman,  and  whilst  so  doing, 
a  very  fat  old  gentleman  came  up,  and  looking,  very 
quietly  remarked,  in  a  sort  ,of  audible  whisper  to 
himself,  "  Curious,  very  curious  !  this  same  very  little 
act  of  mercy  first  introduced  me  to  my  excellent  Tom 
ay,  ay !  Tom's  gone ;  there  isn't  such  another  from 
Eastcheap  to  Chelsea." 

The   name   of  Tom  was   music   to    Bridget's  ears. 
The   old   gentleman  had  moved   away ;   but  following 
quickly,  Bridget  addressed  him. 
16* 


186  BRIDGET   PATHLOW. 

"I  have  a  brother,  sir,  whose  name  is " 

"  Tom,"  interrupted  the  old  gentleman ;  "  find  me 
my  Tom's  equal,  and  I'll  say  something  to  you.  Here 
is  my  address."  He  thrust  a  card  into  Bridget's 
hand,  and  went  on.  Here  was  a  romantic  omen  of 
good  for  Tom. 

That  same  night  the  letter  was  indited.  Two  days 
after,  the  country  wagon  deposited  Tom  in  the  great 
city.  An  hour  after,  he  sat  by  Bridget's  hearth. 

"This  night  repays  me  for  all  past  sorrow,"  said 
the  sister,  as  she  sat  hand  in  hand  by  her  brother's 
side.  "  Years  ago,  in  those  lonely  winter  nights,  some- 
'hing  like  a  dream  of  this  same  happy  hour  would 
come  before  me.  Indeed  it  did,  dear  Tom." 

Each  thing  within  those  same  two  narrow  rooms 
had  a  history ;  the  cuckoo  clock  itself  would  have 
furnished  matter  for  a  tale ;  the  six  chairs  and  the 
one  table  were  prodigies. 

On  the  morrow,  Tom,  guided  by  the  address,  found 
out  the  office  of  the  fat  old  gentleman,  who,  being  a 
bachelor  and  an  attorney,  held  pleasant  chambers  in 
Clement's  Inn.  Whether  induced  by  Tom's  appear- 
ance or  his  name,  we  know  not,  but  the  old  gentleman, 
after  certain  inquiries  at  the  coachmaker's  in  Long 
Acre,  took  Tom  for  his  clerk  at  the  salary  of  six 
shillings  a  week. 


BRIDGET   PATHLOW  187 

"We  must  now  allow  weeks  to  pass  by.  In  the 
mean  while,  Bridget's  work  increased,  though  not  the 
money  paid  for  it.  Yet  out  of  these  same  earnings 
a  small  sum  was  laid  by,  for  what  our  Lincoln  girl 
breathed  to  no  living  ear.  About  this  time,  better 
work  was  heard  of,  but  application  for  it,  through  the 
person  who  employed  her,  failed ;  how,  she  knew  not. 
"  If  I  had  a  friend,"  she  said,  "  I  might  succeed ;  and 
though  Richard  has  passed  me  in  the  streets  un- 
heeded, still  I  will  make  one  last  appeal  to  him."  She 
went,  not  in  rags,  but  decently  attired. 

"  That  you  are  rich,  and  above  me  in  circumstances, 
I  know,  Richard,"  she  humbly  said ;  "  hitherto  you 
have  scorned  to  own  one  so  poor ;  but  as  I  have 
never  wronged  you  or  your  name,  you  will  perhaps 
say  that  I  am  your  sister  ?  " 

"  I  made  your  fortune  once,"  he  bitterly  answered ; 
"  of  your  honest  purposes  since  then  I  know  nothing. 
For  the  rest,  it  is  not  convenient  for  a  man  in  my 
condition  to  have  pauper  friends  —  you  have  my  an- 
swer." 

"  Brother,"  she  said,  as  she  obeyed  the  haughty 
gesture  that  signalled  her  to  leave  the  room,  "  may 
you  regret  the  words  you  have  so  harshly  spoken. 
For  the  rest,  believe  me,  I  shall  yet  succeed,  in  spits 
of  all  this  opposition." 


188  BRIDGET    PATHLOW. 

The  peace  of  Bridget's  home  was  now  broken  by 
weekly  letters  from  Lincoln  for  loan  of  money,  which 
applications  being  successful  for  a  few  times,  only 
made  the  letters  more  urgent  and  pressing  in  their 
demands. 

Some  months  after  Bridget's  interview  with  Richard, 
there  sat,  one  winter's  evening,  in  the  study  of  a  cele- 
brated author,  three  gentlemen.  The  one  was  the 
author  himself,  as  widely  known  for  his  large  human 
loving  heart  as  for  the  books  he  had  written.  He 
had  now  been  for  some  days  translating  a  child's  story 
from  the  German,  a  sort  of  spiritual  child's  book,  like 
the  Story  without  an  End. 

"  Were  this  book  illustrated  by  one  who  had  the 
same  self-helping  soul  as  its  author,  the  same  instinc- 
tive feeling,"  said  the  translator  to  one  of  his  friends, 
"  it  would  indeed  be  priceless.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  none  but  a  woman  could  catch  the  simple  yet 
deep  maternal  feeling  that  lies  in  these  same  pages ; 
but  where  is " 

"  There  is  a  woman  capable  of  this,"  said  one  of 
the  friends,  turning  to  the  author;  beyond  all  doubt 
capable.  Look  here." 

He  drew  forth  from  a  pocket  book  the  very  papers 
which,  two  years  before,  Bridget  had  lost. 

"  You    say  true,"   answered   the    translator ;    u  but 


BRIDGET    PATHLOW.  189 

what  is  this  ?  It  seems  like  the  copy  of  some  carved 
foliage,  some " 

"  This  must  be  Bridget's,"  interrupted  the  other 
guest,  leaning  across  the  table  with  anxious  face,  (for 
it  was  no  other  than  the  minster  prebend ;)  "  I  see 
it  is ;  yes,  yes,  a  copy  of  the  antique  carving  from 
the  minster  wall.  Good  things  have  been  said  in 
Lincoln  of  this  Bridget,  but  the  father  would  never 
tell  where  she  was." 

The  enthusiastic  old  gentleman  now  entered  into  a 
long  detail  of  Bridget's  youth,  which,  coupled  with 
the  other  gentleman's  story,  left  no  doubt  that  the 
peeper  into  the  thumbed  copy  of  Bewick  and  the 
Lincoln  girl  were  one  and  the  same. 

Next  day,  anxious  inquiries  were  set  on  foot  re- 
specting Bridget,  but  without  effect.  Then  weeks 
went  by,  and  in  the  mean  while  the  German  book 
could  find  no  fit  illustrator.  But  at  last  the  wood  cuts 
in  the  cheap  periodical,  for  which  Bridget  engraved, 
were  remarked  upon.  The  man  who  had  the  name 
of  being  both  the  artist  and  engraver  was  applied  to, 
and  he  agreed  to  furnish  the  desired  illustrations.  A 
few  were  sent  in,  surpassing  the  author's  hopes ;  but 
a  stray  leaf,  a  graceful  touch,  brought  to  memory 
the  hand  of  Bridget.  Yet  she  could  not  be  heard  of, 
though  the  old  Lincoln  gentleman  was  indefatigable  in 
his  inquiries. 


190  BRIDGET   PATHLOW. 

At  length,  one  night  the  prebend  and  his  friend 
were  returning  along  the  Strand,  in  a  westerly  direc- 
tion, when  by  St.  Clement's  Daines  they  observed  a 
very  fat  old  gentleman  creeping  slowly  along  the  pave- 
ment, whilst  a  diminutive  youth  kept  watch  and  guard, 
now  right,  now  left,  as  either  side  seemed  likely  to  be 
jostled  by  some  rude  passer  by. 

"  You  shall  go  no  farther,"  at  length  said  the  old 
gentleman,  stopping  short ;  "  not  an  inch  farther.  Go ! 
give  my  love  to  your  sister,  you  dog,  and  say  that  I 
have  to  thank  her  for  introducing  to  me  a  second  in- 
comparable Tom." 

But  the  boy  was  so  far  incomparable,  that,  being 
wilful  and  obstinate,  he  would  see  the  old  gentleman 
safe  within  New  Inn,  which  was  near  at  hand ;  and 
the  friends,  waiting  outside,  staid  till  the  boy  returned, 
for  his  voice  had  brought  to  the  prebend's  ear  that 
of  Bridget.  They  followed  him  into  Long  Acre,  up 
two  pair  of  stairs,  where,  lifting  the  latch,  the  prebend 
beheld  the  same  Bridget  whom  he  had  known  at 
Lincoln,  while  his  companion  recognized,  in  the  same 
person,  her  whom  he  had  followed  years  ago.  A 
good  fire  burnt  upon  the  hearth,  Tom's  tea  ready,  his 
shoes  and  his  coat  by  the  fire  ;  for  the  night  was  wet, 
and  Bridget  herself  busily  at  work  upon  the  illustra- 
tion of  the  German  story.  Happy  was  the  meeting 


BRIDGET   PATHLOW.  191 

between  the  old  man  and  her  he  almost  thought  his 
child ;  strange  the  feelings  of  the  gentleman  who  had 
bought  the  thumbed  Bewick,  and  hoarded  those  poor 
drawings.  We  have  not  room  to  tell  the  joy  of  that 
night. 

From  this  hour  Bridget  had  worthy  friends.  The 
morrow  brought  the  sister  of  the  one  who  had  re- 
membered Bridget  at  the  bookstall.  He  was  the  same 
rich  city  merchant  who  so  unknowingly  had  praised 
Bridget's  first  work  and  act  of  mercy.  When  he 
heard  from  the  worthy  coachmaker  that  story,  when 
he  knew  from  Tom  what  a  sister  Bridget  was,  when 
the  old  prebend  said  so  many  kindly  things,  no  won- 
der that  admiration  ripened  into  love.  By  the  hand 
of  his  sister  (who  was  his  housekeeper)  all  manner 
of  graceful  acts  were  performed,  all  manner  of  good 
fortune  offered ;  but  nothing  could  shake  Bridget's 
self-helping  resolves,  no  promises  induce  her  to  quit 
poor,  humble,  trusting  Tom :  the  only  help  she  asked 
was  that  of  work  to  be  done.  The  excellent  prebend, 
returning  to  Lincoln,  spoke  much  of  Bridget,  which 
good  report  of  fortune  coming  to  her  father's  ears,  he 
presently  resolved  (as  his  wife  was  now  dead)  to  make 
one  home  serve  for  himself  and  Bridget.  So  coming 
to  London,  he  was  soon  comfortable ;  exacting  money, 
craving  for  delicacies,  not  caring  how  they  were  to 


r  BRIDGET   PATHLOW. 

be  procured,  till  their  once  happy  home  became  one 
of  misery  to  Tom  and  Bridget. 

Months  went  by,  often  during  which  it  was  mercy 
to  escape  to  the  home  of  her  kind  city  friends,  even 
for  a  few  hours.  The  house  that  they  occupied  in 
summer  time  —  it  was  now  that  season  —  was  situated 
a  few  miles  from  town,  and  here  one  evening  the  rich 
merchant  asked  Bridget  to  be  his  wife. 

"  You  might  live  to  regret  marriage  with  one  so 
poor  as  myself,  sir,"  was  her  answer ;  "  you  who  could 
ask  the  hand  of  ladies  of  wealth  and  beauty." 

"  Wealth  of  money,  Bridget,  but  not  with  thy  wealth 
of  soul.  Money  is  an  advantage  which  the  many  have ; 
but  the  heroism  of  self-help  in  women  is  rare  because 
few  are  so  willing  to  be  self-helpers.  It  is  I  who  will 
be  made  rich  in  having  you.  I  know  that  time  would 
prove  it.  Come,  my  home  must  be  yours." 

Bridget  did  at  last  consent,  but  with  a  reservation 
which  must  be  yet  a  secret.  Whatever  was  its  pur- 
pose, it  was  a  resolve  not  to  be  shaken ;  but  as  time" 
wore  on,  many  were  the  protestations  against  this 
resolution.  At  length,  after  days  and  weeks  of  inde- 
fatigable labor,  Bridget  asked  the  old  prebend  and  the 
merchant  to  meet  her  at  the'  chambers  of  Tom's  mas- 
ter. They  did  so.  Tom  was  there,  as  well  as  the  fat 
old  gentleman,  the  one  looking  sly  because  he  knew 


BRIDGET    PATHLOW.  193 

the  secret,  the  other  wonderingly.  The  old  gentleman 
signed  some  papers,  which  an  old  clerk  attested  j  then 
Bridget,  drawing  forth  a  purse  of  gold,  laid  the  fees 
upon  the  parchment  of  Tom's  indenture  as  articled 
clerk. 

"  This  was  my  reservation,  this  my  secret.  As  I 
have  now  shown  myself  a  humble,  loving  sister  of  this 
dear  Tom,  so  I  am  now  willing  to  become  the  wife." 

A  week  after,  Bridget  stood  as  the  wife  of  the  rich 
city  merchant  by  the  altar  of  Lincoln  minster ;  and  dear 
as  the  marriage  ring  was  on  that  day  was  the  gift  of 
the  old  thumbed  copy  of  Bewick's  British  Birds. 

Habits  of  self-help,  like  all  good  things,  are  endur- 
ing. Bridget,  as  the  wife  and  mother,  is  still  the  same, 
losing  no  opportunity  of  self-culture,  no  power  of  being 
the  best  teacher  to  her  children. 

Tom  is  at  this  time  a  quaint  bachelor  attorney,  hav- 
ing succeeded  to  the  snug  practice  of  the  fat  gentleman. 
That  there  exists  between  him  and  Bridget  a  rare  and 
enduring  love,  we  need  not  make  record. 

Of  the  death  of  the  father  we  need  not  speak.  Over 
the  selfishness,  the  pride  of  the  elder  brother,  we  will 
draw  a  veil,  for  the  memory  of  good  is  better  than 
the  memory  of  evil.  Bridget  had  triumph  enough  in 
the  fruition  of  honest  labor. 
17 


MATERNAL    DREAM. 

FROM   THE   GERMAN. 

THE  mother  prays  in  her  heart,  and  eyes 
Her  slumbering  infant  with  still  delight; 
In  the  cradle  so  calm,  so  dear  he  lies, 
An  angel  he  seems  hi  her  sight. 

She  kisses  and  fondles  him,  scarce  herself; 
All  thought  of  the  pains  of  earth  departs ; 
Hope  roves  in  a  future  of  fame  and  wealth; 
Such  the  dream  of  fond  mothers'  hearts. 

Meanwhile  at  the  window  loud  this  lay 
The  raven  shrieks  with  his  croaking  brood : 
"Thy  angel,  thy  angel  shall  be  our  prey! 
The  robber  doth  serve  us  for  food ! " 


THE    DREAMERS    OF    DOCKUM. 

A    TALE     OP    PRIESLAND. 
TRANSLATED   FROM   THE    GERMAN. 

DURING  the  Christmas  holidays,  Saske  invited  her 
brother's  children,  two  boys  and  four  girls,  from  Al- 
dega ;  the  guests  came,  for  it  was  fine  frosty  weather. 
On  the  Wednesday  there  was  to  be  a  race  at  Frent- 
jer,  for  a  knife  with  a  silver  handle,  and  the  whole 
troop  of  young  people  were  to  go,  with  Rommert  at 
their  head ;  but  in  the  forenoon  the  weather  became 
overcast,  and  every  now  and  then  the  sky  was  cloudy. 
"  I*  don't  know,"  said  Pibe ;  "  I  have  strong  doubts 
about  your  going.  Yesterday  there  was  a  ring  round 
the  sun,  and  I  felt  a  pain  last  night  in  my  back.  I  think 
there  will  be  a  heavy  fall  of  snow."  "  No,  no,  uncle," 
said  one  of  his  nieces,  "  it  is  beginning  to  brighten 
up,  and  there  are  breaks  and  openings  in  the  clouds." 
"But  a  little  before  twelve,  it  began  to  pour  down,  and 
whilst  they  were  at  dinner  there  blew  a  strong  east 


196  THE   DREAMERS    OF    DOCKUM. 

wind,  which  swept  right  over  the  fields,  so  that  it  was 
impossible  for  any  one  to  look  out  of  his  eyes.  The 
girls,  who  were. all  eager  to  go  to  Frentjer,  said,  "It 
wTill  be  better  by  and  by."  But  the  weather,  far 
from  clearing  up,  became  so  much  worse,  that  a  peas- 
ant would  not  have  turned  his  dog  out  of  doors  ;  they 
all,  therefore,  staid  at  home. 

The  air  became  keen  and  frosty ;  and,  whilst  the 
cutting  wind  blew  sharply  against  the  buildings,  the 
party  within  were  weary  of  playing  at  draughts,  and 
had  chatted  till  they  were  tired.  One  of  the  children 
proposed  telling  stories.  This  amusement  would  have 
been  at  once  begun,  when  in  came  two  friends  of  the 
clergyman  into  the  room.  They  were  to  have  gone 
to  Frentjer,  too,  but  as  they  heard  there  were  some 
pretty  girls  at  Pibe's,  they  preferred  spending  the 
evening  with  them.  They  were  two  students  from 
Groningen ;  the  one  a  nephew  of  the  clergyman,  and 
the  other  his  college  friend,  the  son  of  a  quack  doc- 
tor of  some  celebrity.  They  both  took  a  share  in 
story-telling. 

"  But  where  there's  no  king,  there's  no  honor,"  ob- 
served the  clergyman's  nephew.  "  I  propose  that  he 
who  tells  the  best  tale  shall  be  beau,  for  the  rest  oi 
the  evening,  to  the  girl  he  likes  best." 

So  fair  a  proposal  was  readily  agreed  to.     Mother 


THE  DREAMERS  OF  DOCKUM.         197 

Saske  set  a  pot  of  Coffee  on  the  hearth,  and  Gabe 
threw  on  some  more  firing,  which  crackled  and  flared 
up,  whilst  the  quack  doctor's  son  began  the  following 
story  :  — 

"In  the  year  1343,  two  citizens  of  Dockum,  with 
Rouke  Lefferts,  a  peasant  from  a  neighboring  com- 
mon, set  out  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome.  As  there 
were  not  many  inns  on  the  route,  each  pilgrim  carried 
a  knapsack  on  his  back,  and  in  his  hand  a  long  knob- 
by stick  ;  this,  with  a  few  odd  shillings  in  their  pockets, 
completed  their  equipment  for  the  journey  to  Italy. 
Now  it  so  happened,  that,  towards  the  evening,  they 
came  either  to  a  monastery  or  a  castle ;  there  they 
had  shelter  for  the  night,  fire  and  water  gratis,  and 
they  boiled  or  roasted  whatever  they  had  in  their 
knapsacks,  or  what  chance  might  throw  in  their  way. 
But  when  there  were  no  castles  or  monasteries  within 
reach,  then  they  slept  out  in  the  open  air,  like  Adam 
and  Eve ;  and  whilst  the  leaves  of  the  trees  served 
them  for  curtains,  the  ground  was  their  bed.  When, 
however,  they  were  about  half  a  day's  journey  from 
Rome,  their  scanty  stock  of  provisions  began  to  fail 
them ;  their  meal  was  so  nearly  exhausted,  that  of  the 
small  quantity  which  remained  there  was  not  sufficient 
for  each  to  make  himself  a  cake,  and  unluckily  they 
were  benighted  at  a  place  where  neither  castle  nor 
'7* 


198         THE  DREAMERS  OF  DOCKUM. 

monastery  was  to  be  seen  far  or  near.  How  were 
they  to  manage  the  next  morning?  for  they  already 
began  to  feel  the  pangs  of  hunger,  and  if  they  went 
on  half  a  day  longer,  they  would  not  fare  much  bet- 
ter. Hunger  is  a  sharp  sword ;  it  quickens  men's 
wits ;  it  had  this  effect  on  our  men  of  Dockum.  One 
of  them  whispered  in  his  fellow's  ear,  *  Can't  we  de- 
vise some  plan  for  getting  Rouke's  meal  ?  We  towns- 
men may  easily  get  the  better  of  such  a  clown  as  he 
is ;  he  is  so  simple,  a  child  might  cheat  him.'  '  Yes, 
yes ;  that's  seen  at  once/  said  the  other ;  '  that  is 
nothing ;  we  will  soon  outwit  him.' 

"  Immediately  one  of  them,  standing  up,  addressed 
his  companions  in  the  following  manner :  '  My  friends, 
we  are  in  a  sad  plight ;  for  so  small  a  quantity  of 
meal  is  left,  that  it  would  not  be  sufficient  to  satisfy 
our  hunger ;  but,  if  we  were  to  put  the  three  portions 
together,  would  fill  one  of  our  hungry  stomachs ; 
therefore  I  think  it  would  not  be  amiss  if  we  could 
manage  that  the  whole  should  fall  into  the  hands  of 
one  or  other  of  us  three.  However,  for  my  part,  I 
would  not  put  a  mouthful  into  my  lips  except  in  the 
most  honorable  manner.  So  I  propose  that  the  mat- 
ter be  left  to  the  decision  of  Heaven.  Let  us  go  and 
lie  down  to  sleep ;  and  let  him  have  all  the  meal  tc 
whom  Heaven  sends  the  best  dream.'  *  Capital  I 


THE  DREAMERS  OF  DOCKUM.         199 

Baid  his  fellow-citizen  from  Dockum.  The  peasant, 
too,  agreed  to  the  plan  with  as  good  a  grace  as  pos- 
sible, though  the  poor  fellow  began  to  suspect  that  he 
was  not  likely  to  have  fair  play  at  the  hands  of  his 
comrades.  The  three  portions  of  meal  were  thrown 
together,  well  kneeded,  and  made  up  into  a  cake, 
which  they  laid  on  some  hot  stones,  and  covered  over 
with  the  glowing  embers,  to  bake  whilst  they  closed 
their  eyes  in  sleep. 

"  The  citizens  thought  as  little  of  any  trick  on  the 
part  of  the  clown  as  they  did  of  the  day  of  their 
death ;  it  never  occurred  to  them  that  he  was  capable 
of  attempting  one.  So  they  tranquilly  laid  their 
weary  heads  on  the  green  bank,  and  soon  fell  into  a 
real  sleep.  Hunger  had,  however,  made  their  com- 
panion restless  and  wakeful ;  the  opportunity  was  not 
to  be  lost ;  he  gently  brushed  the  ashes  from  the 
dough  with  his  cap,  and  devoured  the  cake  with  a 
good  appetite.  As  he  swallowed  the  last  morsel,  he 
could  scarcely  restrain  himself  from  laughing,  at  the 
expense  of  the  men  of  Dockum,  as  they  lay  snoring 
at  his  side,  while  the  big  drops  of  sweat  chased  each 
other  down  their  cheeks.  '  Now,'  said  he  to  himself, 
*  you  dear,  good  men,  Rouke  is  perfectly  contented. 
You  will  not  suffer  from  an  overloaded  stomach  to- 
day. Sure  you  would'  have  found  a  plain  cake  too 


200  THE    DREAMERS    OF    DOCKUM. 

dry  for  you,  and   Rouke  could   read  his  lesson  verj 
well  without  your  help.     How  fresh  you'll  rise  afte 
such  sound  sleep !      Good  night,  my  dear  creaturea 
once  more,  good  night ! '     In  two  seconds  he  laid  hirr 
self  down  again  to  sleep. 

"  As  soon  as  the  sun  was  risen,  one  of  the  sla'Jk 
berers  awoke,  and  roused  his  confederate,  to  whom  he 
related  the  following  tale  :  — 

"  *  My  friends,  hear  me.  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
my  dream.  One  evening,  I  thought  I  was  standing 
near  the  Fetje-Put,  at  Dockum,  when  two  angels, 
with  wings  on  their  backs,  came  flying  through  the 
air,  and  carried  me  away,  like  a  couple  of  eagles,  into 
the  sky.  In  my  flight,  there  passed  both  blue  and 
green  before  my  eyes,  and  the  wind  whistled  in  my 
ears,  just  like  a  storm  through  the  rigging  of  a  bhip ; 
indeed,  our  flight  was  so  rapid,  that  it  seemed  to  be 
blowing  great  guns,  a»d  every  hair  on  my  head  was 
so  violently  blown  about,  that  I  felt  as  if  it  were  all 
coming  out  by  the  roots.  One  of  the  angels  gave  me 
such  a  swing  that  he  stripped  the  skin  from  my  finger 
ends  up  to  my  elbows.  After  we  had  flown  thirty 
four  weeks,  we  arrived  at  the  gate  of  heaven,  wherr 
the  other  angel  drew  from  his  pocket  a  golden  key. 
and  with  it  opened  the  door.  What  then  burst  be- 
fore my  view  was  so  bright  and  dazzling,  that  had  I 


THE   DREAMERS    OF   DOCKTJM.  201 

an  inkstand  as  large  as  the  Spanish  sea,  and  a  pen 
mat  would  reach  from  Dockum  to  Home,  I  should 
completely  fail  in  endeavoring  to  give  you  any  ade- 
quate description  of  it.  The  streets  were  all  golden, 
and  glittered  so  with  precious  stones,  that  no  mortal 
eye  could  for  a  moment  gaze  on  them.  In  this  world 
of  splendor  and  magnificence,  I  could  not  see  a  single 
body ;  but  millions  of  souls  were  flitting  about,  so 
small  that  eleven  thousand  might  dance  upon  the 
point  of  a  needle/ 

"  When  the  man  had  related  many  more  of  the 
extraordinary  scenes  he  beheld  in  the  regions  of  bliss, 
his  friend  from  Dockum  arose  and  told  his  dream. 

" '  It  is  very  singular/  he  began,  '  that  you  have 
dreamed  you  were  in  heaven,  and  I,  that  I  visited 
hell.  As  I  was  walking  one  evening  in  the  Keppels, 
there  met  me  two  persons  in  the  garb  of  blacksmiths, 
who  seized  hold  of  me  by  the  hand,  and  dragged  me 
to  the  fiery  pool  at  Stavoren.  Then  we  sank  down 
with  the  rapidity  of  lightning  until  we  reached  the 
bottom,  when  I  found  myself  standing  as  it  were  in 
the  midst  of  a  vast  common,  on  which  nothing  grew 
or  flourished  but  moorgrass  and  rushes.  After  we  had 
groped  about  in  it  for  a  long  time,  we  ascended  a 
very  steep  hill,  on  approaching  the  summit  of  which 
one  of  the  black  men  exclaimed,  "  Take  care ;  we  are 


202  THE    DREAMERS    OF    DOCKUM. 

at  the  brink  of  hell."  These  were  the  only  words 
they  uttered.  Having  crept  to  the  very  edge,  I  ven- 
tured to  look  over,  with  iny  neck  stretched  out  like 
a  stork's,  on  the  sea  of  fire  beneath.  It  roared  and 
hissed,  —  it  crackled  and  snapped,  —  and  the  foaming 
flames  poured  forth  their  smoke  like  a  caldron  in  a 
violent  state  of  ebullition.  This  awful  sight  struck 
terror  into  my  bosom,  and  I  drew  back  as  frightened 
as  a  young  weasel.  My  dark  companions  bound  two 
wings  to  my  arms,  and  flew  with  me  until  we  arrived 
just  over  the  burning  abyss,  where  I  remained  shak- 
ing my  wings,  like  a  seamew  about  to  dart  upon  its 
victim  in  the  depth  beneath.  But,  comrades,  when  I 
think  of  what  I  saw  then,  my  skin  crawls  up  my 
arms.  I  heard  the  immense  bellows  creak  and  puff, 
which  forever  blew  up  the  infernal  flames ;  while  the 
suffocating  heat,  which  continually  rose  to  the  top  of 
this  awful  gulf,  made  me  swoon  away,  and  the  sparks 
flew  about  so  thickly  that  the  very  hair  of  my  head 
was  singed.  In  these  abodes  of  torment  I  beheld  the 
inhabitants  killing  one  another,  and  troops  of  devils 
flying  hither  and  thither  with  curses  on  their  tongues/ 
"  During  the  narration  of  these  .two  dreams,  the 
peasant  pretended  he  was  in  a  sound  sleep,  although 
he  had  heard  every  word  that  was  spoken.  As  soon 
as  the  men  of  Dockum  had  finished,  they  called  out 


THE  DREAMERS  OF  DOCKUM.         203 

to  him  to  rise  and  tell  his  dream.  'He  immediately 
woke  up,  and  appearing  much  alarmed,  fixed  both  his 
eyes  on  them  like  a  person  who  has  been  aroused 
from  a  deep  slumber,  and  asked,  in  a  shrill  voice, 
«  Who  are  you  ? ' 

"'What!'  said  they;  <  do  not  you  know  us?' 

"  *  You  ?  '  he  asked  again  — '  you  ?  What !  are  you 
returned  ? ' 

"  '  Returned ! '  said  they  ;  '  we  have  not  been  away.' 

"  '  Wh^i, !  indeed,  you  have  not  been  away  ?  Then 

I  must  be  mistaken.  But  it  is O,  I  suppose  I 

dreamed  it ! ' 

"  *  What  have  you  dreamed  ? '  asked  one  af  his 
companions ;  '  tell  us  your  dream.' 

"'Well,'  said  Rouke,  'I  thought  that  one  of  you 
had  flown  to  heaven,  under  the  care  of  two  angels, 
and  that  the  other  was  gone  to  hell  with  two  black 
fellows.  It  seems  only  just  now  that  you  left  me.  At 
first  I  gazed  after  you  as  long  as  I  could,  and  when 
you  were  out  of  sight,  I  waited  and  waited ;  but  as 
neither  of  you  made  his  appearance,  I  thought  to  my- 
self, both  the  men  of  Dockum  will  never  come  back 
again ;  and  because  you  had  no  more  need  of  any 
thing  to  eat,  I  have  in  my  solitude  (for  the  secret 
must  come  out)  despatched  the  whole  cake!'" 

Here    the   tale   finished ;    the   nieces   from    Aldega 


204         THE  DREAMERS  OF  DOCKUM. 

had  listened  with  such  attention  that  you  could  have 
heard  them  breathe ;  at  the  end  they  all  four  heaved 
a  deep  sigh. 

In  the  mean  while,  Saske  had  prepared  the  coffee, 
of  which  each  guest  now  partook,  while  the  clergy- 
man's nephew  was  thinking  of  the  story  he  in  hia 
turn  should  relate  to  the  company. 


LOVE'S   MEMORY. 

MRS.  GRAY.  % 

I  WOVE  a  wreath ;  'twas  fresh  and  fair  j 
Rich  roses  in  their  crimson  pride, 

And  the  blue  harebell  flowers,  were  there  j 
I  wove  and  flung  the  wreath  aside : 

Too  much  did  those  bright  blossoms  speak 

Of  thy  dear  eyes  and  youthful  cheek. 

I  took  my  lute ;  methought  its  strain 
Might  wile  the  heavy  hours  along; 

I  strove  to  fill  my  heart  and  brain 

With  the  sweet  breath  of  ancient  song: 

In  vain ;  whate'er  I  made  my  choice 

Was  fraught  with  thy*  bewitching  voice. 

And  down  I  laid  the  restless  lute, 

And  turned  me  to  the  poet's  page ; 
And  vainly  deemed  that  converse  mute* 

Umningled,  might  my  heart  engage: 
But  in  .the  poet's  work  I  find 
fellow-essence  of  thy  mind. 
IS 


LOVE'S   MEMORY. 

I  wandered  midst  the  silent  wood, 

And  sought  the  greenest,  coolest  glade, 

Where  not  a  sunbeam  might  intrude ; 
And  in  a  chestnut's  quiet  shade 

I  sate,  and  in  that  leafy  gloom 

Thought  of  the  darkness  of  the  tomb,  — 

And  strove  to  lead  my  heart  to  drink 

At  the  deep  founts  of  wandering  thought ; 

To  ponder  on  the  viewless  link 

Between  our  souls  and  bodies  wrought; 

To  quench  my  passionate  dreams  of  thee 

A  while  in  that  philosophy. 

Yet,  all  the  while,  thine  image  bright 
Still  flitted  by  my  mind  to  win, 

Casting  through  dreamy  thoughts  its  light, 
Like  sunshine  that  would  enter  in ; 

And  every  leaf  and  every  tree 

Seemed  quivering  with  beams  of  thee. 

Beloved !  I  will  strive  no  more ! 

Thine  image,  in  vice-regal  power, 
Shall  ruling  sit  all  memories  o'er, 

Throned  in  my  heart,  until  the  hour 
When  thoii  thyself  shalt  come  again, 
Restoring  there  thine  olden  reign. 


SEEKING. 

BY   DORA  GREENWELL. 

"  AND  where,  and  among  what  pleasant  places, 
Have  ye  been,  that  ye  come  again, 

With  your  laps  so  full  of  flowers,  and  your  faces 
Like  buds  blown  fresh  after  rain?" 

"We  have  been,"  said  the  children,  speaking 

In  their  gladness,  as  the  birds  chime 
All  together  —  "  we  have  been  seeking 

For  the  Fairies  of  olden  time ; 
For  we  thought  they  are  only  hidden  — 

They  would  surely  never  go 
From  this  green  earth  all  unbidden, 

And  the  children  that  love  them  so. 
Though  they  come  not  around  us  leaping, 

As  they  did  when  they  and  the  world 
Were  young,  we  shall  find  them  sleeping 

Within  some  broad  leaf  curled ; 


208  SEEKING. 

For  the  lily  its  white  doors  closes, 

But  only  over  the  bee, 
And  we  looked  through  the  summer  roses, 

Leaf  by  leaf,  so  carefully ; 
But  yet  rolled  up  we  shall  find  them 

Among  mosses  old  and  dry, 
"With  gossamer  threads  to  bind  them ; 

They  will  dart  like  the  butterfly 
From  its  tomb.     So  we  went  forth  seeking ; 

Yet  still  they  have  kept  unseen, 
Though  we  think  our  feet  have  been  keeping 

The  track  where  they  have  been ; 
For  we  saw  where  their  dance  went  flying 

O'er  the  pastures,  snowy  white, 
Their  seats  and  their  tables  lying 

O'erthrown  in  their  hasty  flight. 
And  they  too  have  had  their  losses ; 

For  we  found*  the  goblets  white 
And  red,  in  the  old  spiked  mosses, 

That  they  drank  from  over  night; 
And  in  the  pale  horn  of  the  woodbine 

"Was  some  wine  left,  clear  and  bright. 
But  we  found,"  said  the  children,  speaking 

More  quickly,  "so  many  things, 
That  we  quite  forgot  we  were  seeking; 

Forgot  all  the  Fairy  rings ; 


SEEKING.  209 

Forgot  all  the  stories  olden, 

That  we  hear  round  the  fire  at  night, 
Of  their  gifts  and  their  favors  golden, 

The  sunshine  was  so  bright ; 
And  the  flowers — we  found  so  many, 

It  almost  made  us  grieve 
To  think  there  were  some,  sweet  as  any, 

That  we  were  forced  -to  leave, 
As  we  left  by  the  brookside  lying, 

The  balls  of  drifted  foam, 
And  brought  (after  all  our  trying) 

These  Guelder  roses  home." 

«  Then,  O ! "  I  heard  one  speaking 

Beside  me,  soft  and  low, 
"  I  have  been,  like  the  blessed  children,  seeking; 

Still  seeking,  high  and  low ; 
But  not,  like  them,  for  the  Fairies ; 

They  might  pass  unmourned  away 
For  me,  that  had  looked  on  angels, 

On  angels  that  would  not  stay ; 
No !  not  though  in  haste  before  them 

I  spread  all  my  heart's  best  cheer, 
And  made  love  my  banner  o'er  them, 

If  it  might  but  keep  them  here  ; 
18* 


210  SEEKING. 

They  staid  but  a  while  to  rest  them; 

Long,  long  before  its  close, 
From  my  feast,  though  I  mourned  and  pressed  thenit 

The  radiant  guests  arose ; 
And  their  flitting  wings  struck  sadness 

And  silence ;  never  more 
Hath  my  soul  won  back  the  gladness 

That  was  its  own  before. 
No,  I  mourned  not  for  the  Fairies ; 

When  I  had  seen  hopes  decay, 
That  were  sweet  unto  my  spirit 

So  long,  I  said,  '  If  they 
That  through  shade  and  sunny  weather 

Have  twined  about  my  heart 
Should  fade,  we  must  go  together, 

For  we  can  never  part.' 
But  my  care  was  not  availing; 

I  found  their  sweetness  gone ; 
I  saw  their  bright  tints  paling; 

They  died  — yet  I  lived  on." 

Yet  seeking,  ever  seeking, 

Like  the  children,  I  have  won 
A  guerdon  all  undreamed  of 

When  first  my  quest  begun; 


SEEKING.  211 

And  my  thoughts  come  back,  like  wanderers 

Outwearied,  to  my  breast : 
What  they  sought  for  long  they  found  not, 

Yet  was  the  unsought  best ; 
For  I  sought  not  out  for  crosses; 

I  did  not  seek  for  pain  j 
Yet  I  find  the  heart's  sore  losses 

"Were  the  spirit's  surest  gain. 


THE    WARRIOR'S    BRIDE. 

BY  J.   8.   A. 

CHAPTER  I. 

ROME  was  enjoying  the  blessings  of  peace,  and  so 
little  employment  attended  the  soldier's  every-day  life 
that  the  words  "  as  idle  as  a  soldier,"  became  a  prov- 
erb indicative  of  the  most  listless  inactivity. 

The  people  gave  themselves  up  to  joy  and  glad- 
ness. The  sound  of  music  was  heard  from  all  parts 
of  the  city,  and  perfumed  breezes  went  up  as  an 
incense  from  the  halls  of  beauty  and  mirth. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  blessed  time  for  the  city  of  the 
seven  hills,  and  its  people  rejoiced  as  they  had  not 
for  many  a  long,  long  year — ay,  for  a  century. 

"Peace,  sweet  Peace,  a  thousand  blessings  attend 
thy  glad  reign.  See  you  how  quietly  the  peasant's 
flocks  graze  on  our  eternal  hills  ?  The  tinkling  bell 
is  a  sweeter  sound  than  tlfe  trumpet's  blast,  and  the 
curling  smoke,  arising  from  the  hearth  stones  of  con- 


P.  268. 


THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE.  213 

tented  villagers,  is  a  truer  index  of  a  nation's  power 
than  the  sulphurous  cloud  from  the  field  of  battle. 
What  say  you,  Alett,  is  it  not?" 

Thus  spake  a  youth  of  noble  mien,  as  he  stood 
with  one  arm  encircling  the  waist  of  a  lady,  of  whose 
beauty  it  were  useless  to  att  3mpt  a  description.  There 
are  some  phases  of  beauty  i~hich  pen  cannot  describe 
nor  pencil  portray  —  a  beauty  which  seems  to  hover 
around  the  form,  words,  and  motions  of  those  whose 
special  recipients  it  is  ;  a  sort  of  ethereal  loveliness, 
concentrating  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  the  sun's  golden 
rays,  and  so  acting  upon  the  mind's  eye  of  the  ob- 
server as  almost  to  convince  him  that  a  visitant  from 
a  sphere  whose  perfection  sin  lias  never  marred  is  in 
his  presence. 

Such  was  that  of  Alett.  She  was  the  only  daugh- 
ter of  a  distinguished  general,  whose  name  was  the 
terror  of  all  foes,  and  the  confidence  of  all  friends,  of 
Italy  —  his  eldest  daughter ;  and  with  love  approach- 
ing idolatry  he  cherished  her.  She  was  his  confidant. 
In  the  privacy  of  her  faithful  heart  he  treasured  all 
his  plans  and  purposes.  Of  late,  the  peaceful  security 
in  which  the  nation  dwelt  gave  him  the  opportunity 
of  remaining  at  home,  where,  in  the  companionship 
of  a  wife  he  fondly  loved,  children  he  almost  idolized, 
and  friends  whose  friendship  was  not  fictitious,  he  found 


214  THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE. 

that  joy   and   comfort   which   the   camp   could   never 
impart. 

Alett  was  ever  in  the  presence  of  her  father,  or 
the  young  man  whose  apostrophe  to  peace  we  have 
just  given. 

Rubineau  was  not  the  descendant  of  a  noble  family, 
in  the  worldly  acceptation  of  the  term.  It  was  noble, 
indeed,  but  not  in  deeds  of  war  or  martial  prowess. 
Its  nobleness  consisted  in  the  steady  perseverance  in 
well  doing,  and  a  strict  attachment  to  what  conscience 
dictated  as  right  opinions.  The  general  loved  him 
for  the  inheritance  he  possessed  in  such  traits  of 
character,  and  the  love  which  existed  between  his 
daughter  and  the  son  of  a  plebeian  was  countenanced 
under  such  considerations,  with  one  proviso ;  which 
was,  that,  being  presented  with  a  commission,  he  should 
iccept  it,  and  hold  himself  in  readiness  to  leave  home 
and  friends,  when  duty  should  call  him  to  the  field 
of  battle. 

We  have  introduced  the  two  standing  on  a  beauti 
ful  eminence,  in  the  rear  of  the  general's  sumptuous 
mansion. 

The  sun  was  about  going  down,  and  its  long,  golden 
rays  streamed  over  hill  and  dale,  palace  and  cot, 
clothing  all  in  a  voluptuous  flow  of  rich  light. 

They  had    stood   for   several   moments   in   silence, 


THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE.  215 

gazing  at  the  quiet  and  beautiful  scene  before  them, 
when  the  musical  voice  of  Rubineau  broke  forth  in 
exclamations  of  delight  at  the  blessings  of  peace. 

Alett  was  not  long  in  answering.  It  was  a  theme 
on  which  she  delighted  to  dwell.  Turning  the  gaze 
of  her  large  full  eye  up  towards  those  of  Rubineau, 
she  said, — 

"  Even  so  it  is.  Holy  peace  !  It  is  strange  that  men 
will  love  the  trumpet's  blast,  and  the  smoke  and  the 
heat  of  the  conflict,  better  than  its  gentle  scenes.  Peace, 
Peace !  blessings  on  thee  as  thou  givest  blessings." 

Rubineau  listened  to  the  words  of  his  Alett  with  a 
soul  of  admiration.  He  gazed  upon  her  with  feelings 
he  had  never  before  felt,  and  which  it  was  bliss  for 
him  to  experience. 

She,  the  daughter  of  an  officer,  brought  up  amid 
all  the  glare  and  glitter,  show  and  blazonry,  of  mili- 
tary life,  —  she,  who  had  seen  but  one  side  of  the 
great  panorama  of  martial  life, — to  speak  thus  in  praise 
of  peace,  and  disparagingly  of  the  profession  of  her 
friends  —  it  somewhat  surprised  the  first  speaker. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  replied,  "  but  how  uncertain  is  the 
continuance  of  the  blessings  we  now  enjoy !  To-mor- 
row may  sound  the  alarm  which  shall  call  me  from 
your  side  to  the  strife  and  tumult  of  war.  Instead 
of  your  gentle  words,  I  may  hear  the  shouts  of  the 


216  THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE. 

infuriated  soldiery,  the  cry  of  the  wounded,  and  the 
eighs  of  the  dying." 

"  Speak  not  so,"  exclaimed  AJett ;  "  it  must  not  be." 

"  Do  you  not  love  your  country  ? "  inquired  the 
youth. 

"  I  do,  but  I  love  Rubineau  more.  There  are  war- 
riors enough  ready  for  the  battle.  It  need  not  be 
that  you  go.  But  why  this  alarm  ?  We  were  talking 
of  peace,  and  behold  now  we  have  the  battle  field  be- 
fore us  —  war  and  all  its  panoply." 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dearest  Alett,  for  borrowing 
trouble;  but  at  times,  when  I  am  with  you  and 
thinking  of  our  present  joy,  the  thought  will  arise 
that  it  may  be  taken  from  us."  No  more  words  were 
needed  to  bring  to  the  mind  of  Alett  all  that  filled 
that  of  Rubineau.  They  embraced  each  the  othor 
more  affectionately  than  ever,  and  silently  repaired  to 
the  house  of  the  general. 


CHAPTER   IL 

to  To  remain  will  be  dishonor,  to  go  may  be  death. 
When  a  Roman  falls,  the  foe  has  one  more  arro\t 
aimed  at  his  heart;  an  arrow  barbed  with  revenge 
and  sent  with  unerring  precision.  Hark!  that  shout 


THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE.  217 

is  music  to  every  soldier's  ear.     Hear  you  that  tramp 
of  horsemen  ?  that  rumbling  of  chariot  wheels  ? " 

Twelve  months  had  passed  since  the  time  of  the 
last  chapter,  and  after  repeated  threatenings  war  had 
actually  begun. 

Instead  of  idle  hours,  the  soldiers  had  busy  moments, 
and  every  preparation  was  made  to  meet  the  oppos- 
ing array  in  a  determined  manner,  and  with  a  steadi- 
ness of  purpose  that  should  insure  success. 

The  general  watched  for  some  time  the  fluctuating 
appearance  of  public  affairs,  and  it  was  not  until  war 
was  not  only  certain,  but  actually  in  progress,  that  he 
called  upon  Rubineau  to  go  forth. 

A  week  hence  Rubineau  and  Alett  were  to  be 
united  in  marriage,  and  invitations  bad  been  extended 
far  and  near,  in  anticipation  of  the  event.  It  had 
been  postponed  from  week  to  week,  with  the  hope 
that  the  various  rumors  that  were  circulated  respect- 
ing impending  danger  to  the  country  might  prove 
untrue,  or  at  least  to  have  a  foundation  on  some 
weak  pretence  which  reasonable  argument  might  over- 
throw. 

Day  by  day  these  rumors  increased,  and  the  gath- 
ering together  of  the  soldiery  betokened  the  certainty 
of  an  event  which  would  fall  as  a  burning  meteor  in 
the  midst  of  the  betrothed  and  their  friends, 
'  19 


218 


The  call  for  Rubineau  to  depart  was  urgent,  and 
its  answer  admitted  of  no  delay. 

"  To  remain,"  said  the  general,  "  will  be  dishonor ; 
to  go  may  be  death :  which  will  you  choose  ?  " 

It  was  a  hard  question  for  the  young  man  to  an- 
swer. But  it  must  be  met.  The  general  loved  him, 
and  with  equal  unwillingness  the  question  was  pre- 
sented and  received. 

" I  go.     If  Rubineau  falls " 

"If  he  returns,"  exclaimed  the  general,  interrupt- 
ing him,  "honor,  and  wealth,  and  a  bride  who  loves 
and  is  loved,  shall  be  his  —  all  his." 

It  was  a  niglit  of  unusual  loveliness.  The  warm 
and  sultry  atmosphere  of  the  day  had  given  place  to 
cool  and  gentle  breezes.  The  stars  were  all  out, 
shining  as  beacons  at  the  gates  of  a  paradise  above, 
and  the  moon  began  and  ended  her  course  without 
the  attendance  of  one  cloud  to  veil  her  beauties  from 
the  observation  of  the  dwellers  on  earth. 

Rubineau  and  Alett  were  seated  beneath  a  bower, 
cultivated  by  the  fair  hand  of  the  latter. 

The  next  morning  Rubineau  was  to  depart.  All 
the  happy  scenes  of  the  coming  week  were  to  be 
delayed,  and  the  thought  that  they  might  be  de- 
layed long  —  ay,  forever  —  came  like  a  shadow  of 


THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE.  219 

evil  to  brood  in  melancholy  above  the  plao?  and  the 
hour. 

We  need  not  describe  the  meeting,  the  parting. 

"Whatever  befalls  me,  I  shall  not  forget  you, 
Alett.  Let  us  hope  for  the  best.  Yet  a  strange  pre- 
sentment I  have  that  I  shall  not  return." 

"  0  that  I  could  go  with  you  ! "  said  Alett.  "  Think 
you  father  would  object  ?  " 

"  That  were  impossible.  Nothing  but  love,  true 
and  enduring,  could  make  such  a  proposal.  It  would 
be  incurring  a  twofold  danger." 

"  Death  would  be  glorious  with  you,  life  insup- 
portable without  you." 

In  such  conversation  the  night  passed,  and  when 
the  early  light  of  morning  came  slowly  up  the  east- 
ern sky,  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  called  him  away. 

The  waving  of  a  white  flag  was  the  last  signal, 
and  the  general,  all  urused  to  tears  as  he  was,  min- 
gled his  with  those  of  his  family  as  the  parting  kiss 
was  given,  and  Rubineau  started  on  a  warfare,  the 
result  of  which  was  known  only  to  Him  who  governs 
the  destinies  of  nations  and  of  individuals. 

And  now,  in  the  heat  of  the  conflict  the  war  raged 
furiously.  Rubineau  threw  himself  in  the  front  rank, 
and  none  was  more  brave  than  he.  It  seemed  to  his 


220  THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE. 

fellow-officers  that  he  was  urged  on  by  some  unseen 
agency,  and  guarded  from  injury  by  some  spirit  of 
good.  % 

To  himself  but  one  thought  was  in  his  mind,  and, 
regardless  of  danger,  he  pressed  forward  for  a  glori- 
ous victory,  and  honor  to  himself  and  friends. 

Those  whose  leader  he  was  were  inspirited  by  his 
courageous  action,  and  followed  like  true  men  where 
he  led  the  way. 

They  had  achieved  several  victories,  and  were  mak- 
ing an  onset  upon  numbers  fourfold  as  large  as  their 
own,  when  their  leader  received  a  severe  wound,  and 
falling  from  his  noble  horse,  would  have  been  tram- 
pled to  death  by  his  followers,  had  not  those  who  had 
seen  him  fall  formed  a  circle  around,  as  a  protection 
for  him. 

This  serious  disaster  did  not  dampen  the  ardor  of 
the  soldiers ;  they  pressed  on,  carried  the  point,  and 
saw  the  foe  make  a  rapid  retreat. 

The  shouts  of  victory  that  reached  the  ears  of 
Rubineau  cam  3  with  a  blessing.  He  raised  himself, 
and  shouted,  "  On,  brave  men ! "  But  the  effort  was 
too  much  for  him  to  sustain  for  any  length  of  time, 
and  he  fell  back,  completely  exhausted. 

He  was  removed  to  a  tent,  and  had  every  atten- 
tion bestowed  upon  him.  As  night  approached,  and 


THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE.  221 

the  cool  air  of  evening  fanned  his  brow,  he  began  to 
revive,  but  not  in  any  great  degree. 

The  surgeon  looked  sad.  There  was  evidently 
reason  to  fear  the  worst;  and  accustomed  as  he  was 
to  such  scenes,  he  was  now  but  poorly  prepared  to 
meet  it. 

"  Rubineau  is  expiring,"  whispered  a  lad,  as  he 
proceeded  quietly  among  the  ranks  of  soldiers  sur- 
rounding the  tent  of  the  wounded. 

And  it  was  so.  His  friends  had  gathered  around 
his  couch,  and  conscious  of  the  approach  of  his  dis- 
solution, he  bade  them  all  farewell,  and  kissed  them. 

"Tell  her  I  love  I  die  an  honorable  death;  tell 
her  that  her  Rubineau  fell  where  the  arms  of  the 
warriors  clashed  the  closest,  and  that  victory  hovered 
above  him  as  his  arm  grew  powerless ;  and,  O,  tell 
her  that  it  was  all  for  her  sake,  that  love  for  her 
nerved  his  arm,  and  love  for  her  is  borne  upward  on 
his  last,  his  dying  prayer.  Tell  her  to  love  as  I " 

"  He  is  gone,  sir,"  said  the  surgeon. 

"  Gone ! "  exclaimed  a  dozen  voices. 

"A  brave  man  has  fallen,"  remarked  another,  as 
be  raised  his  arm  and  wiped  the  flowing  tears  from 
bis  cheek. 

19* 


222  THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE. 


CHAPTER  m. 

At  the  mansion  of  the  old  general,  every  arrival 
of  news  from  the  war  sent  a  thrill  of  joy  through  the 
hearts  of  its  inmates.  Hitherto,  every  despatch  told 
of  victory  and  honor ;  but  now,  a  sad  chapter  was  to 
be  added  to  the  history  of  the  conflict. 

Alett  trembled  as  she  beheld  the  slow  approach  of 
the  messenger,  who  at  all  previous  times  had  come 
with  a  quick  step.  In  her  soul  she  felt  the  keen 
edge  of  the  arrow  that  was  just  entering  it,  and  longed 
to  know  all,  dreadful  though  it  might  be. 

Need  we  describe  the  scene  of  fearful  disclosure  ? 
If  the  reader  has  followed  the  mind  of  Alett,  as  from 
the  first  it  has  presumed,  conjectured,  and  fancied, 
followed  all  its  hopes  of  future  bliss,  and  seen  it 
revel  in  the  sunshine  of  honor  and  earthly  fame,  ht» 
can  form  some  idea,  very  faint  though  it  must  be,  of 
the  effect  which  followed  the  recital  of  all  the  facts 
in  regard  to  the  fallen. 

In  her  wild  frenzy  of  grief,  she  gave  utterance 
to  the  deep  feelings  of  her  soul  with  words  that  told 
how  deep  was  her  sorrow,  and  how  unavailing  every 
endeavor  which  friends  exerted  to  allay  its  pangs. 


THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE.  223 

She  would  not  believe  him  dead.  She  would 
imagine  him  at  her  side,  and  would  talk  to  him  of 
peace,  "  sweet  peace,"  and  laugh  in  clear  and  joyous 
tones  as  she  pictured  its  blessings,  and  herself  enjoying 
with  him  its  comforts. 

Thus,  with  enthroned  reason  she  would  give  vent 
to  grief,  and  with  her  reason  dethroned  be  glad  and 
rejoice. 

And  so  passed  her  lifetime. 

Often,  all  day  long,  attired  in  bridal  raiment,  the 
same  in  which  she  had  hoped  to  be  united  indisso- 
lubly  to  Rubineau,  she  remained  seated  in  a  large 
oaken  chair,  while  at  her  side  stood  the  helmet  and 
spear  he  had  carried  forth  on  the  morning  when  they 
parted.  At  such  times  she  was  as  calm  as  an  in- 
fant's slumberings,  and  saying  that  she  was  waiting 
for  the  sound  of  the  marriage  bells ;  asked  why  they 
did  not  ring,  and  sat  for  hours  in  all  the  beauty  of 
loveliness  —  the  Warrior's  Bride. 


ON   A   WITHERED    BOUQUET. 

E.   S. 

WHEN  beneath  my  Cynthia's  smile  — 
Smile,  fit  image  of  her  heart !  — 

All  your  beauty  blushed  a  while, 

Soon  from  its  frail  throne  to  part, — 

Fairer  ye  than  those  that  spring 
'Neath  the  foot  of  radiant  May ; 

Fairer  than  the  wood  nymphs  bring 
Offerings  to  the  god  of  day. 

But  when  I,  with  ruthless  hand, 
Plucked  ye  from  your  blissful  seat, 

Like  a  wreck  upon  the  strand 
That  the  incessant  surges  beat, — 

All  your  beauty  ruined  lay  — 
Drooping  fell  your  faded  leaves : 

So  the  exile  far  away 

For  his  own  loved  country  grieves ! 

Ah !  how  like  our  common  lot ! 

Blessed  alone  when  she  is  nigh  — 
Banished  from  the  charmed  spot, 

Plunged  hi  grief,  we  lingering  die 


MADAME   GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS 
EVE. 

BY   MART  HOWITT. 

I  WISH  you  had  all  been  at  old  Frau  Goetzen- 
berger's  last  Christmas  Eve !  But  as  you  were  not, 
and  as  you  know  nothing  about  it,  the  best  thing  I 
can  do  is  to  tell  you  exactly  how  it  was,  who  was 
there,  and  what  came  of  it. 

Old  Frau  Goetzenberger  lived,  or  rather  lives  — 
but  we  will  speak  of  it  in  the  past  tense  —  she  lived, 
I  say,  in  an  old  university  town  in  the  south  of  Ger- 
many ;  a  very  old-fashioned  town  it  was,  with  all  sorts 
of  old  memories  and  traditions  connected  with  it.  The 
university,  with  its  tall,  red  roof,  looked  as  dark  and 
ancient  as  the  church,  which  had  a  tall,  red  roof  to 
correspond ;  and  the  church  looked  quite  as  old  as 
the  gray  limestone  rocks  which  stood  up,  like  huge, 
frowning  walls,  round  the  little  town. 

Not  far  from  the  university  stood  a  large,  heavy, 
dismal-looking  stone  building,  like  a  great,  gloomy 


226    MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

town  hall;  the  lower  front  windows,  which  looked 
upon  the  street,  were  all  guarded  with  strong  iron 
work,  composed  of  upright  bars,  with  iron  scrolls 
among  them,  which  gave  it  very  much  the  appearance 
of  a  prison.  In  the  centre  of  this  building  was  a 
wide,  round-arched  gateway,  in  the  projecting  key- 
stone of  which  grinned  a  stone  face.  The  face  pro- 
truded its  tongue  from  its  leering  mouth,  its  nose  was 
curled  up,  and  its  ears  were  of  an  unusual  length. 
It  was,  upon  the  whole,  as  ugly  a  face  as  you  would 
wish  to  see,  and  it  seemed  to  grin  down  upon  every- 
body who  approached  the  gateway.  So  wide  was 
this  gateway,  that  a  coach  and  four  might  have  driven 
into  it ;  and  on  either  hand,  soon  after  you  entered, 
you  came  to  a  wide,  stone  staircase,  with  iron  balus- 
trades, which  led  up  to  the  dwellings  of  many  fami- 
lies —  of  a  dozen,  at  least  —  who  inhabited  this  great, 
old  house,  most  of  them  being  professors  or  students, 
belonging  to  the  university. 

Between  this  old  house  and  the  university  lay  a 
large  garden,  full  of  trees  and  walks,  and  with  a 
fountain,  which  fell  into  a  great  stone  basin,  in  the 
middle  of  a  grass  plat,  which  was  not,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  by  any  means  neatly  kept,  for  two  or  three  milk 
womni  cut  the  grass  with  sickles  for  their  cows, 
This  gard'  n,  to  a  certain  extent,  was  public ;  that  is, 


MADAME  UOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.    227 

was  common  to  about  a  dozen  different  houses  opening 
into  it,  and  which  were  all  occupied,  more  or  less,  by 
people  connected  with  the  university,  who  had  thus, 
as  it  were,  a  privileged  private  entrance,  either  to  the 
great  university  library,  or  to  ordinary  lectures  and 
classes.  Hence  it  was  that  the  houses  opening  into 
this  universitdts  garten,  as  it  was  called,  brought  a 
higher  rent  than  any  others,  and  the  people  residing 
there  were  looked  upon  as  the  elite  ;  it  was,  in  fact, 
the  Belgravia  of  the  town. 

On  the  principal  floor  of  that  great  old  house 
with  the  grinning  face  over  the  door,  lived  the  most 
celebrated  professor  in  the  whole  university  —  the 
Herr  von  Hoffman,  professor  of  Roman  law ;  a  very 
learned  man,  whose  fame  extended  over  all  Germany. 
So  great,  indeed,  was  he,  that  the  king,  not  many 
years  before,  had  presented  him  with  a  patent  of  no- 
bility, and  hence  it  was  that  he  had  von  before  his 
name.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  Herr  Baron  von  Hoff 
man ;  but  he  preferred  being  called  simply  the  Herr 
Professor,  because  he  had  more  pleasure  in  being  a 
great  teacher  than  in  being  a  baron.  He  was  not,  how- 
ever, an  old  man ;  he  was  only  a  little  turned  forty, 
and  this  was  his  first  year  at  the  famous  old  univer- 
sity when  I  introduce  him  to  your  knowledge. 

He   was    a    very    quiet,   domestic    man,   was    this 


228    MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS 


Professor  von  Hoffman,  and  there  was  nothing  in 
the  world  which  he  wished  so  much  for  as  a  sweet- 
tempered,  good,  little  wife,  and  a  dear,  happy  family 
of  pretty  children.  When  he  was  only  twenty,  and  a 
student  at  the  old  University  of  Greifswald,  his  do- 
mestic wishes  were  just  the  same.  But  he  was  a 
very  poor  man  in  those  days  ;  nevertheless,  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  marry  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  main- 
tain a  wife  and  family  ;  and  more  than  that,  to  marry 
no  one  else  than  the  pretty  Ida,  the  youngest  daugh 
ter  of  old  Professor  Schmidt,  under  whom  he  had 
studied  Roman  law  ;  and  the  sweet-tempered  and  pretty 
Ida  had  promised  to  be  his  wife  whenever  he  should 
be  ready  to  offer  her  a  home.  But  things  did  not 
fall  out  as  either  the  student  Eberhard  or  his  fair 
Ida  hoped.  Old  Professor  Schmidt  would  not  consent 
to  part  with  his  daughter  Ida,  who  was  his  favorite. 
He  was,  unfortunately,  a  very  sour-tempered,  obstinate 
old  gentleman  ;  he  said  that  Eberhard  was  too  poor 
to  marry,  and  could  not  afford  to  have  a  wife.  In 
this  way  year  after  year  went  on  ;  Ida's  sister  Mario 
married,  and  went  away  to  her  husband's  home,  and 
her  mother,  the  old  professor's  wife,  died,  and  then 
there  was  nobody  left  to  look  after  him  but  poor  Ida, 
and,  what  was  worst  of  all,  the  old  gentleman's  tem- 
per grew  still  more  and  more  tyrannical,  because  he 


MADAME  GOETZENBEROER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.     2^9 

now  suffered  so  much  from  rheumatism  and  tooth* 
ache. 

There  did  not  now  seem  to  be  the  least  chance  in 
the  world  that  Ida  could  ever  leave  her  father.  Eber- 
hard  had  been  away  two  years,  and  he  grew  very 
impatient.  He  had  risen  from  privat  docent,  without 
any  salary,  to  be  professor  of  Roman  law  in  the 
University  of  Tubingen.  He  now  could  abundantly 
afford  to  maintain  that  dear  little  wife  that  was  only 
wanted  to  complete  his  happiness ;  so  he  wrote  to 
Ida,  saying  that  she  must  consent  to  marry  him  at 
once,  and  that,  to  make  all  easy  and  agreeable,  the 
old  gentleman,  her  father,  should  live  with  them.  Ida 
was  delighted  with  the  proposal ;  not  so  the  old  pro- 
fessor. For  what  was  he  to  leave  Greifswald?  No, 
he  had  no  intention  of  leaving  it !  He  had  not  many 
years  to  live,  and  he  was  not  going  to  be  torn  up  by 
the  roots  for  any  body !  It  would  be  the  death  of 
him.  No,  no ;  he  should  stop  at  Greifswald,  and  Ida 
might  leave  him,  if  she  liked ;  but  he  would  never 
give  his  blessing  to  an  undutiful  child ! 

It  was  very  hard  both  on  Ida  and  her  lover.  They 
waited  yet  a  while  longer ;  but  Tubingen  was  a  very 
dull  place,  and  all  the  professors  there  were  married 
excepting  Eberhard.  So  at  last  he  wrote  to  Ida,  say- 
ing that  if  she  could  not  marry  tim,  he  must  look  out 
20 


260      MADAME  GOETZENBERGER  S  CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

for  another  wife.  He  quite  expected  that  this  would 
have  determined  Ida,  by  one  means  or  another,  to 
obtain  her  father's  consent;  but,  instead  of  that,  Ida, 
who  was  the  most  generous-hearted  and  most  self- 
*brgetting  creature  in  the  world,  could  not  again  anger 
and  distress  her  old  father  by  urging  her  wishes,  and, 
as  she  knew  what  a  loving,  domestic  heart  was  Eber- 
hard's,  and  that  without  family  life  he  could  not  be 
happy,  she  wrote,  in  reply,  that  though  it  broke  her 
heart,  she  must  give  him  up,  for  that,  to  leave  her 
old  father  in  his  present  state  was  impossible.  She 
returned  to  him,  therefore,  the  betrothal  ring  which 
she  had  faithfully  worn  so  many  years,  and,  with 
anguish  of  heart  and  many  tears,  of  which  she  said 
nothing,  sent  off  her  letter. 

The  professor  received  the  ring,  and  read  the  lettei 
with  the  deepest  grief,  disappointment,  and  some  little 
anger.  He  believed  that  Ida's  love  for  him  was 
nothing  in  comparison  with  what  he  had  felt  for 
her.  He  returned  to  her  the  ring  which  he  too  had 
worn  with  equal  fidelity,  with  a  long  letter,  which,  in- 
stead of  comforting,  only  added  to  her  misery.  For 
several  weeks  he  felt  very  unhappy  and  desolate ;  but 
all  his  married  friends  and  acquaintance  thought  it 
their  duty  to  be  doubly  kind  to  him.  What  sisters, 
and  nieces,  and  cousins,  all  beautiful  young  ladies, 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.    231 

were  introduced  to  him  at  suppers  and  little  tea 
parties,  which  were  got  up  expressly  for  the  occasion ! 
And  at  length  it  appeared  to  him  that  the  beautiful 
Caroline,  only  daughter  of  the  rich  Oberst  or  Colonel 
Hoffman,  might  probably  fill  the  place  in  his  heart 
left  vacant  by  the  loss  of  his  Ida.  Caroline,  or  Lina, 
as  she  was  called,  was  reckoned  a  great  match,  for 
her  father  not  only  wore  many  orders  at  his  button 
hole,  but  was  possessed  of  a  handsome  estate  and 
house  in  the  Saxon  Switzerland,  which,  having  come 
to  the  oolonel  by  his  wife,  would  pass  direct  to  his 
daughter  on  his  death,  with  the  simple  condition  of 
her  husband  taking  the  name  of  Hoffman.  A  very 
good  match  was  this  for  the  professor,  who,  though 
he  was  growing  into  great  reputation  for  learning,  had 
nothing  but  his  head  to  make  money  by,  and  his 
good  heart  to  make  a  wife  happy  with ;  and  these  do 
not  always  rank  as  high  in  value  as  gold  and  silver, 
houses  and  lands.  - 

The  professor  married  the  beautiful  Lina,  and  not 
long  afterwards,  her  father  dying,  her  husband  came 
into  possession  of  the  fine  house  and  estate  in  the 
Saxon  Switzerland,  and  assumed  the  excellent  name 
of  Hoffman,  henceforth  dropping  his  own  undignified 
family  name  of  Grim,  and  by  which  he  had  been 
betrothed  to  Ida  Schmidt.  The  next  event  that 


232     MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

occurred  to  him  was  the  birth  of  a  little  daughter, 
who  was  called,  after  her  mother,  Lina ;  and  soon  after 
wards  he  received  from  his  sovereign  that  patent  of 
nobility  which  I  have  mentioned,  and  which  was  be- 
stowed upon  him  in  consequence  of  his  great  learn- 
ing, and  henceforth  he  was  the  Herr  Baron  VOD 
Hoffman. 

But  wonderful  as  was  the  professor's  outward  pros- 
perity, his  domestic  happiness  was  not  destined  to  be 
of  very  long  continuance.  Four  years  after  his  mar- 
riage, his  wife  died,  leaving  him  no  other  child  than 
his  little  Lina,  then  about  three  years  old.  Very 
desolate  was  now  the  professor's  heart  and  home. 
As  time  went  on,  and  the  acuteness  of  the  grief 
caused  by  the  death  of  his  wife  a  little  wore  off,  he 
thought  about  equally  of  Ida,  his  first  love,  and  Lina, 
his  child's  mother.  People  wondered  that  he  did  not 
marry  again.  With  his  reputation,  his  title,  and  his 
fine  estate  in  the  Saxon  Switzerland,  he  might  marry 
any  lady  in  the  land.  I  believe  he  knew  that  very 
well;  but,  as  I  said  before,  he  thought  a  great  deal 
about  poor  Ida  and  her  hard  life  with  the  cross  'old 
gentleman,*  her  father.  He  thought  so  much,  indeed, 
that  five  years  after  his  wife's  death,  when  his  little 
Lina  was  eight  years  old,  he  set  off  during  the  um- 
fewity^sr&n,  cr  holidays,  on  a  journey  to  the  north, 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER;S  CHRISTMAS    EVE.      233 

taking  Greifswald  in  his  way.  He  did  not  ttll  ?. 
single  soul  that  he  did  so,  but  I  mention  it  to  you  in 
confidence. 

Well,  the  first  thing  he  did  when  he  arrived  at 
Greifswald  was  to  inquire  after  old  Professor  Schmidt 
and  his  family.  He  made  his  inquiries  from  an  old 
woman  who  was  knitting  by  the  side  of  a  wood,  while 
a  white  goat,  fastened  to  her  apron  string  by  a  long 
chain,  was  feeding,  and  she  was  keeping  two  cows, 
which  were  likewise  grazing,  within  bounds. 

"  Of  Herr  Professor  Schmidt  ask  you  ? "  said  the 
oW  woman ;  "  he's  been  dead  and  buried  these  six 
years." 

«  And  Fraulein  Ida  ?  " 

"  No ;  she's  not  here.  She  Mras  an  angel !  What 
a  daughter  she  was !  She  never  thought  her  duty 
hard ;  and  yet  it  is  unknown  what  she  had  to  bear, 
and  yet  I  know,  for  I  was  sick  nurse  in  that  family 
for  years.  Ah,  Fraulein  Ida !  she  would  have  made 
any  man  happy ;  she  was  such  an  angel ;  many's  the 
good  chance  for  herself  that  she  sacrificed  to  her  duty 
to  her  father.  You  never  knew  Fraulein  Ida,  then?'* 
asked  the  old  woman. 

The  professor  made  a  sort  of  sound  which  she  un- 
derstood to  mean  no  ;  therefore  she  went .  on  :  "  Then 
you  never  knew  what  an  angel  she  was  ?  She  was 
20* 


234    MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

cruelly  used,  sir,  by  a  student ;  but  he's  a  learned 
professor  now,  they  tell  me ;  one  Eberhard  Grun. 
You,  may  be,  may  know  him,  and  can  tell  me  what's 
become  of  him,  for  he  studied  in  Greifswald  ? " 

Again  the  professor  made  that  peculiar  sound  which 
passed  for  a  negative,  and  the  old  woman  went  on  : 
"  No ;  I  dare  say  you  don't ;  but  no  good  co-uld  come 
to  him,  that's  certain.  He's  married,  however,  and  he 
was  betrothed  to  Fraulein  Ida  for  several  years.  I 
never  shall  forget  her  reading  of  his  marriage  to  her 
father,  for  she  always  read  the  newspapers  to  him, 
and  he  would  have  every  word :  she  dropped  down 
in  a  fainting  fit  when  she  read  that,  and  if  it  had 
not  been  for  me,  who  had  just  come  in  to  tell  the 
Herr  Professor  that  his  bran  bath  was  ready,  she 
would  have  fallen  on  the  stove.  Poor  Fraulein  Ida ! 
And  when  her  friends  said  to  her,  as  many  did  at 
first,  how  heartless  was  that  Eberhard  Grim  to  leave 
her  as  he  had  done,  she  used  to  say,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  '  Don't  blame  him.  I  don't  blame  him  my- 
self. It  is  a  good  thing  if  he  does  not  suffer  as  I 
do ;  and  I  hope  he  doesn't.'  That  was  the  way  she 
talked.  But  she's  gone  from  Greifswald  now,"  con- 
tinued the  old  woman.  "When  the  Herr  Professor 
died,  he  left  her  nothing  but  his  books  and  pay  3rs, 
and  they  were  not  worth  much;  and  soon  aftei  >j; 


MADAME  GOETZENBERQER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.     £o5 

death,  Mrs.  Bernhard,  the  eldest  daughter,  died  also : 
she  had  been  a  widow  some  years,  but  she  was  well 
off;  she  left  a  child,  a  beautiful  little  girl,  to  Frau- 
lein  Ida's  care,  with  a  small  legacy,  which  brings  her 
in  a  little  income,  and  after  that  Fraulein  Ida  and 
her  little  orphan  niece  went  to  live  with  an  old  aunt 
of  the  late  Herr  Bernhard,  but  where  nobody  knows 
They  did  live  at  Cassell  for  a  time,  but  they  are 
gone  away ;  but  go  where  she  will,  Heaven's  blessing 
will  light  on  her,  sooner  or  later ;  of  that  I  am  sure." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  Herr  Professor  von  Hoffman, 
in  a  voice  which  was  very  husky,  but  which  the  old 
woman,  not  knowing  him,  supposed  to  be  natural  to 
him  —  "perhaps  she  may  be  married  by  this  time?" 

The  old  woman  almost  screamed  at  the  idea. 

"  Married  ! "  repeated  she  ;  "  married  by  this  time  ! " 
and,  in  her  impatience,  she  gave  the  poor  little  goat 
such  a  sudden  pluck  by  its  chain,  that,  thinking  the 
tuft  of  yellow  ragwort  at  which  it  was  smelling  was 
some  forbidden  fruit,  it  set  up  a  sharp  bleat,  and  gave 
a  great  leap  so  far  in  a  contrary  direction,  that  the 
old  woman  was  pulled  in  her  turn.  "  Married  by 
this  time  !  "  repeated  she  once  more  ;  "  you  gentlemen 
know  nothing  about  women !  Fraulein  Ida  Schmidt 
will  never  marry  any  man  but  Eberhard  Griin,  be- 
cause she  never  can  love  another  as  she  loved  him ; 


236    MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

and  it  may  please  God  to  make  him  worthy  of  her, 
because,  as  ihe  Bible  says,  all  things  are  possible 
with  God!" 

"  Amen  !  "  said  the  professor,  strangely  affected. 

The  old  woman  went  after  her  goat,  which  had 
now  grown  very  wayward ;  and  he  pursued  a  solitary 
path  which  led  deep  into  the  wood,  and  which,  in 
those  far-distant  days,  which  the  old  woman  had  so 
sadly  recalled,  he  and  his  beloved  Ida  had  often  trod 
together. 

The  tidings  which  the  professor  had  thus  obtained 
left  him  in  no  state  of  mind  to  call  on  any  of  his  old 
friends  in  Greifswald.  He  continued  his  journey  into 
the  north,  even  as  far  as  Upsala,  where,  in  the  library 
of  "the  old  university,  he  added  still  more  to  his 
amazing  amount  of  learning,  and  then  returned  to  Tu 
bingen,  where  he  delivered  his  lectures  as  formerly. 

The  next  thing  that  happened  to  him  was,  that  he 
was  appointed  by  government  to  take  the  law  pro- 
fessor's chair  in  that  still  more  famous  university 
where  we  first  found  him.  Hither  he  removed  early 
in  the  year,  and  took  up,  as  I  told  you,  his  quarters 
in  the  principal  suit  of  rooms  in  that  gloomy  old 
house  with  the  iron-barred  windows,  and  the  grinning 
face  over  the  gateway.  His  spare  hours  he  spent  in 
arranging  and  cataloguing  hig  immense  library,  and 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.    237 

the  rest  of  the  day  in  delivering  his  famous  course  of 
lectures,  which  very  soon  brought  such  an  access  of 
students  to  the  university,  that,  with  the  tradespeople 
and  the  middle  classes  at  large,  who  lived  principally 
by  accommodating  students,  as  well  as  by  all  the  young 
ladies  who  thus  were  provided  with  so  many  more 
agreeable  partners  at  the  public  and  private  balls,  he 
was  considered  quite  a  benefactor  to  the  town,  and, 
consequently,  was  very  popular  with  every  one. 

There  was  something,  however,  peculiar  in  the  pro- 
fessor ;  every  body  agreed  in  this  ;  finding  it,  never- 
theless, not  difficult  to  be  accounted  for,  because  he 
was  so  very  learned,  and  all  learned  men  were  unlike 
common  people ;  they  had  a  right  to  be  odd,  and 
even  disagreeable,  if  they  chose.  But  disagreeable 
Professor  von  Hoffman  was  not ;  he  was  only  very 
grave,  and  had  an  anxious,  self-absorbed  look. 

The  truth  was,  though  nobody  knew  it,  he  was  very 
unhappy  about  poor  Fraulein  Ida,  and  could  not  get 
her  other  sorrows  out  of  his  head.  It  is  wonderful 
what  a  number  of  letters  he  wrote  to  all  parts  of 
Germany,  to  ascertain,  if  he  could,  whither  she  had 
betaken  herself  with  her  little  orphan  niece,  or  where 
this  old  Madame  Bornhard  lived  who  was  aunt  to  the 
child's  father.  But  he  could  obtain  no  satisfactory 
information.  Now  and  then  he  fancied  he  was  upon 


238    MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

the  right  track ;  but  when  he  came  to  pursue  it  £ar 
ther,  —  and  he  took  many  long  journeys  for  this  pur 
pose,  —  it  always  ended  in  disappointment. 

Thus  time  wore  on.  He  lived  in  a  dream  of  hope 
and  disappointment,  busied  over  the  endless  arrange- 
ment of  his  books,  and  looking  neither  to  the  righ^ 
hand  nor  to  the  left,  as  he  crossed  the  great  university 
garden  to  his  lectures.  On  summer  afternoons  the 
garden  was  full  of  people,  who  turned  out  from  the 
surrounding  houses.  Ladies  sat  with  their  knitting 
on  the  various  benches  and  under  the  trees ;  children 
played  about,  and  the  milk  women  cut  the  grass  for 
their  cows.  Every  body  knew  him ;  but  he  knew 
nobody,  took  notice  of  nobody.  "  That  is  the  way," 
said  they,  "  with  all  these  learned  men ;  their  eyes 
are  turned  inwards." 

It  must  have  been  a  very  dull,  unnatural  sort  of 
life  for  little  Lina  von  Hoffman,  if  she  had  had  no 
more  cheerful  person  Nwith  her  than  her  father,  as  he 
appeared  to  the  world ;  but  I  assure  you  her  life  was 
by  no  means  without  its  pleasures.  In  an  evening 
she  was  with  her  father,  and  then  came  out  something 
of  the  joy  and  affection  which  lived  in  his  large,  warm 
heart.  Little  Lina  knew  very  w.il  what  a  glorious 
and  noble  human  being  was  her  father,  and  to  him 
§he  opened  all  her  little  heart.  She  showed  him  ho\v 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.    239 

knitting  progressed,  and  how  many  additional 
she  had  done  in  her  Berlin-wool  work ;  but 
not  a  word  did  she  say  to  him  about  those  beautiful 
slippers  which,  soon  after  midsummer,  she  had  begun 
to  work  for  him.  O,  no !  not  a  word  of  them ;  they 
were  a  great  secret  in  her  heart,  and  were  to  remain 
BO  until  they  should  be  brought  forth  by  the  wonder- 
ful Christ-child  at  Christmas,  who,  she  knew  from  old 
experience,  would  then  bring  something  very  charming 
for  her.  Of  these  things  Lina  spoke  to  her  father, 
but  most  of  all  she  spoke  of  her  little  friend  San- 
chen,  who  lived  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  in  such 
pretty  rooms,  with  her  old  great-aunt  Goetzenberger, 
who  was  quite,  quite  blind,  yet  such  a  cheerful  old 
lady,  and  with  aunt  Ida,  who  was  just  like  an  angel. 
Lina  now  knew  what  angels  must  be  like ;  they  must 
be  like  Sanchen's  aunt  Ida,  if  she  had  only  wings. 
She  wore  such  beautiful  light  silks ;  and  she  had  such 
V)vely  hands,  and  such  a  beautiful  face.  O,  there  nevei 
^as  any  lady  that  smiled  as  she  did. 

It  was  wonderful  what  pleasure  our  good  professor 
felt  in  hearing  his  darling  Lina  thus  talking  of  her 
friends.  There  was  an  inexpressible  charm  to  him 
in  that  sweet  name  of  Ida.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
the  old  lady,  and  even  aunt  Ida,  as  he  believed, 
being  called  Goetzenberger,  he  might,  perhaps,  have 


240     MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

taken  it  into  his  head  that  this  might  be  his  own 
long-lost  Ida.  But  he  never  did ;  and  when  little 
Lina  saw  him  walking  from  his  afternoon  lectures 
across  the  garden,  and  ran  to  him,  saying,  "  There's 
aunt  Ida ! "  he  never  even  gave  himself  the  trouble 
to  look  at  her,  but,  catching  up  the  child  in  his  arms, 
carried  her  to  the  house  with  him.  Aunt  Ida,  on 
her  part,  saw  him  only  at  a  distance :  there  was 
something  about  him  which  painfully  reminded  her 
of  an  old,  long-lost  lover,  and  for  that  very  reason 
she  purposely  avoided  meeting  him.  She  did  not 
wish  to  walk  over  the  grave,  as  it  were,  of  those 
buried  feelings,  on  the  death-like  repose  of  which 
alone  depended  her  own  peace  of  mind. 

Little  Lina  went  very  often  to  Frau  Goetzen- 
berger's.  She  found  it  much  more  cheerful  there 
than  at  her  own  home.  Her  father's  rooms  were  all 
lined  with  dark,  old  books,  piles  of  which  still  lay  on 
the  floor,  and  over  which  she  was  sure  to  tumble  if 
she  did  not  take  great  care ;  besides  which,  there  was 
always  such  a  smell  of  tobacco  smoke,  for,  like  all 
learned  Germans,  he  was  a  great  smoker.  "  If  I 
had  a  wife,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  I  should  rarely 
smoke ;  but  it  is  now  my  only  amusement."  So  the 
rooms  were  full  of  a  smoke  cloud,  which  circled  about 
her  father's  head,  and  curled  up  into  all  the  darl; 


241 


corners  and  into  the  vacant  spaces  on  the  shelves, 
and  which  filled  the*  curtains,  and  even  her  father's 
hair,  with  a  never-dying  smell  of  tobacco.  Very  dif- 
ferent were  Frau  Goetzenberger's  rooms.  All  was 
light  and  cheerful  there,  and  a  fresh,  delicious  odor 
seemed  to  pervade  every  thing.  The  floor  of  the 
sitting  room  was  of  inlaid  wood,  which  gave  a  very 
pretty  effect,  and  a  very  beautiful  carpet  of  needle- 
work, deeply  fringed,  was  laid  before  each  of  the  two 
sofas.  On  one  of  these  sofas  always  sat  the  old  blind 
lady,  in  her  rich  black  satin  and  large  gray  shawl. 
To  look  at  her,  nobody  would  have  supposed  her  to 
be  blind,  for  there  was  nothing  unsightly  or  strange 
in  the  appearance  of  her  eyes,  and  yet  they  could  see 
no  more  than  if  they  were  stones.  She  appeared  tc 
be,  and  was  really,  very  cheerful ;  had  learned  to  go 
about  their  rooms  by  herself;  the  only  difference  be- 
tween herself  and  other  people  being  that  she  walked 
very  slowly,  feeling  her  way  from  point  to  point,  and 
treading  as  softly  as  if  her  feet  had  been  shod  with 
velvet.  She  was  always  employed  in  knitting,  and 
this  prevented  time  from  seeming  long  to  her. 

Ida,  as  little  Lina  often  told  her  father,  was  like  a 

gentle,  lovely  angel ;   not  because  she  was  so   young 

and  beautiful,  but   because   she  looked  so  pure  and 

good.     Aunt   Ida,  indeed,  waa  no  longer  young;   she 

21 


242    MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

was  considerably  turned  of  thirty ;  was  thin  and  pale ; 
her  countenance,  to  thoughtful  observers,  looking  as 
if  at  some  former  time  she  had  known  great  sorrow, 
though  now  her  soul  was  bright  and  cheerful  in  the 
peace  of  resignation  and  faith  in  God.  Her  joy  lay 
in  the  fulfilment  of  her  duty,  and  this  now  was  no 
longer  painful.  She  surrounded  the  blind  lady  with 
objects  of  beauty ;  though  they  could  not  gladden 
her  sight,  still  she  said  their  influence  was  felt.  Every 
thing  was  elegant  and  pure.  Beautiful  flowers  in  pots 
Btood  in  the  windows,  and  gathered  flowers  in  a  glass 
vase  stood  ever  on  the  table,  among  cheerful-spirited 
books,  from  which  Ida  read  at  least  half  the  day. 
Sometimes  she  played  exquisite  pieces  of  music  to 
her;  and  this  the  blind  lady  loved  best  of  all,  for 
Ida  played  divinely. 

Lina  often  told  her  father  about  aunt  Ida's  play- 
ing, and  at  length,  one  evening,  Barbet,  their  maid, 
accompanied  her  home,  with  a  request  from  aunt  Ida 
that  the  professor  would  permit  his  little  daughter  to 
take  in  future  her  music  lesson  with  Sanchen,  which 
would  be  such  a  pleasure  to  every  one.  The  pro- 
fessor could  not  object;  he  returned  a  message  by 
Barbet  which  was  satisfactory  to  all  parties.  "  The 
Herr  Professor  von  Hoffman  was  much  honored  by 
the  interest  which  the  Fraulein  Ida  Goetzenberger 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.     243 

took  in  his  little  daughter's  progress  in  music,  and 
that  he  should  feel  infinitely  obliged  if  she  would 
condescend  to  instruct  her  with  her  niece ;  and  that 
the  Herr  Professor  hoped  before  long  to  have  the 
honor  of  thanking  in  person  the  Frau  and  Fraulein 
Goetzenberger  for  the  kindness  they  had  so  long 
shown  to  his  little  daughter."  Barbet  was  very  clever 
in  delivering  verbal  messages  ;  she  did  not,  therefore, 
omit  or  vary  one  word. 

Ida  smiled.  "  My  name  is  not  Goetzenberger,"  said 
she  ;  "  but  that  is  of  no  moment."  From  that  time 
little  Lina  took  her  lessons  with  Sanchen,  and  thus 
the  best  understanding  grew  up  between  the  two  fam- 
ilies, the  heads  of  which  had  never  as  yet  spoken  to 
each  other.  The  little  girl  was  much  more  at  Frau 
Goetzenberger's  than  at  her  own  home,  and  thus  the 
professor  found  his  room  more  desolate  than  ever. 
"  But  never  mind,"  said  the  good  man  ;  "  she  is  much 
happier  with  our  cheerful  neighbors  than  she  can  be 
with  me."  He  sighed  and  thought  of  that  fair  Ida, 
who  existed  still,  but  not  for  him,  and  blew  tre- 
mendous puffs  of  smoke  out  of  his  long,  handsomely- 
painted  pipe. 

It  was  now  the  autumn  ferien,  and  a  letter  came 
to  the  professor  which  took  him  at  once  from  home. 
A  trusty  friend  of  his  had  found  in  Konigsberg  a 


244    MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Madame  Bernhard  and  a  Fraulein  Ida  Schmidt,  who 
were  living  together.  They  seemed  to  answer  the 
description  of  the  persons  he  was  in  search  of,  more 
especially  as  Fraulein  Schmidt,  it  was  said,  was  from 
a  northern  university  town.  Off,  therefore,  set  our 
good  professor,  once  more  fondly  hoping  that  she 
whom  he  had  sought  so  long  was  at  length  found. 
He  set  off  at  night,  when  his  little  Lina,  who  had 
spent  the  day  at  the  good  neighbors',  was  in  bed, 
and,  kissing  her  in  her  sleep,  and  leaving  a  note  for 
Fraulein  Ida,  was  a  long  way  on  his  journey  before 
she  woke.  The  note,  which  little  Lina  presented 
next  morning,  was  addressed,  as  the  professor  believed 
correctly,  to  Fraulein  Goetzenberger,  and  it  said  that 
the  Professor  von  Hoffman  was  suddenly  called  from 
home  on  business  of  great  importance,  and  begged  to 
commend  his  little  Lina  to  the  kind  attentions  of 
Fraulein  Ida  Goetzenberger  during  his  absence.  Again 
aunt  Ida  smiled,  and  remarked  that  her  name  was 
not  Goetzenberger,  adding,  however,  that  it  was  not 
of  much  importance  ;  and  she  undertook  the  charge 
of  little  Lina  with  right  good  will.  The  professor 
had  written  his  note  in  great  haste,  and  it  was  such 
an  almost  unintelligible  scrawl  as  scarcely  ever  was 
seen ;  but  there  was  for  all  that  a  something  in  the 
handwriting  which  made  our  dear  Ida  look  at  it  again 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.     24.S 

and  again.  "  There  is  a  something  about  it  that  re- 
minds me  of  a  handwriting  that  was  very  dear  to  me 
many  years  ago,"  sighed  she  to  herself,  "  but  all 
learned  men,  to  a  certain  degree,  write  alike;"  and 
she  put  the  note  into  her  work  box. 

Little  Lina  was  as  welcome  as  daylight.  "  It  is 
such  an  excellent  thing,"  Ida  said,  "  for  Sanchen  to 
have  a  companion  of  her  own  age,  and  besides,  little 
Lina  is  a  very  lovable  child ;  there  is  a  something 
about  her  which  has  taken  strange  hold  of  my  heart ; " 
and  so  saying,  she  once  more  took  the  note  from  her 
work  box  and  read  it  through,  though  there  was  noth- 
ing more  to  puzzle  out  in  it.  I  can  hardly  tell  why 
she  did  so,  yet  it  is  a  fact  nevertheless. 

"  I  am  to  be  your  child  while  papa  is  away ! " 
said  little  Lina,  throwing  her  arms  round  aunt  Ida's 
neck.  "  I  wish  you  were  my  mamma,  I  love  you  so 
dearly ! " 

Poor  Ida !  the  letter,  or  rather  the  recollections 
that  it  called  up,  and  the  words  of  the  child,  stirred 
her  heart  very  strangely.  She  clasped  the  little  one 
in  her  arms,  kissed  her  with  tender  emotion,  and  said 
that  from  that  time  she  should  call  her  aunt  Ida,  as 
little  Sanchen  did,  and  they  two  should  be  sisters. 

The  poor  professor  had  a  fruitless  journey,  all  that 
long,  long  way  to  Konigsberg ;  h«  travelled  night 
21* 


246     MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

and  day  to  find,  once  more,  a  disappointment.  The 
Fraulein  Ida  Schmidt  was,  he  found,  older  than  him- 
self, and  the  Madame  Bernhard  was  her  niece.  It 
was  a  mistake  altogether,  and  a  sad  disappointment 
to  the  poor  professor,  who  immediately  leaving  K6- 
nigsberg  made  another  long  journey  to  Carlsbad, 
where  he  determined  to  spend  4the  autumn  ferien.  In 
the  mean  time,  all  was  as  happy  as  could  be  at  the 
house  of  Frau  Goetzenberger.  The  children's  lessons 
were  joyful  amusements ;  they  played  together  the 
sweetest  little  duets ;  they  sang  with  aunt  Ida,  and 
they  danced  while  she  played.  They  wore,  at  the 
same  time,  their  white  frocks,  and  their  pink  frocks; 
they  called  each  other  sister,  and  they  lived  as  if  the 
relationship  had  been  real. 

The  days  had  shortened  greatly  before  the  pro- 
fessor returned,  and  during  the  long  evenings  Frau 
Goetzenberger  many  a  time  spoke  of  her  Christmas 
tree,  and  of  the  marvellous  things  which  the  Christ- 
child  would  lay  beneath  it.  Little  Lina  had  finished 
the  slippers  for  her  papa,  and  Sanchen  was  working 
him  a  cover  for  his  queer  oil-skin  tobacco  bag,  while 
Lina  threaded  steel  beads  on  dark-blue  netting  silk, 
for  the  beautiful  purse  which  aunt  Ida  had  begun  t<< 
knit  for  him.  She  had  once  before,  many  years  ago, 
knitted  such  a  purse  for  that  very  student,  Eberhard, 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.     247 

of  whom  she  retained  such  tender,  yet  painful  recol- 
lections. The  note  which  the  Professor  von  Hoifman 
had  sent  her  about  his  little  Lina  must  indeed  have 
had  a  strange  effect  upon  her,  for  it  was  the  sight 
of  that  very  note  which  had  determined  her  to  make 
just  such  another  purse  for  him.  She  was  now,  there- 
fore, knitting  it  while  little  Lina  threaded  the  beads, 
and  Sanchen  worked  the  tobacco  bag. 

"When  the  children  were  gone  to  bed,  the  purse 
was  put  aside,  and  so  was  Frau  Goetzenberger's  usual 
knitting ;  and  out  came  two  beautiful  pieces  of  wool 
knitting,  which  were  destined,  in  die  end,  to  become 
two  pretty  little  jackets  of  sky-blue,  with  white  bor- 
ders, as  Christmas  presents  from  Frau  Goetzenberger 
to  the  two  little  girls.  Ida  helped  her,  therefore,  at 
night ;  she  did  all  the  difficult  parts,  and  thus  the 
work  went  on,  both  with  rapidity  and  accuracy. 

The  professor  returned  just  in  time  for  the  com- 
mencement of  the  winter  session,  or  semester,  as  it  is 
called.  The  number  of  students  was  now  much  greater 
than  ever,  and  the  professor,  who  had  been  studying 
hard  at  Carlsbad,  in  order  to  add  new  matter  to  his 
lectures,  was  consequently  more  than  ordinarily  busy. 
He  had  not  even  time  to  call  on  his  good  neighbors 
to  thank  them  for  the  care  they  had  taken  of  his 
Lina,  and  he  thought  her  greatly  improved  during  his 


248    JIADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

absence.  He  sent,  however,  once  more  a  verbal  mes- 
sage by  his  old  servant,  Gretchen,  to  thank  them,  and 
to  say  that  as  early  as  possible  he  would  call. 

Lina,  who  found  her  home  very  dull  in  comparison 
with  her  little  friend  Sanchen's,  was  but  seldom  with 
her  father,  whose  time,  as  I  said  before,  would  be, 
until  Christmas,  so  very  much  occupied.  Little  San- 
chen  sometimes  went  home  with  Lina,  but  the  grave 
looks  of  the  professor  rather  frightened  her;  besides, 
having  lived  all  her  life  with  ladies,  she  had  not 
been  used  to  tobacco  smoke,  which  she  greatly  dis- 
liked ;  therefore  Lina,  in  order  that  she  might  enjoy 
her  society,  spent  most  evenings  still  at  Frau  Goet- 
zenberger's.  The  two  ladies,  Frau  Goetzenberger  and 
Fraulein  Ida,  knew  enough  of  learned  professors  to 
be  quite  sure  that  no  slight  was  intended  them,  al- 
though the  Professor  von  Hoffman  did  not  call.  They 
were  by  no  means  exacting,  and  they  thought  that  he 
had  done  all  that  could  be  required  from  so  learned 
and  so  celebrated  a  man,  whose  time  was  more  valu- 
able than  gold,  when  he  had  sent  them  a  polite  mes- 
sage of  thanks,  by  Gretchen. 

At  length  Christmas  was  at  hand,  when  the  pro- 
fessor's labors  were  remitted  for  a  time,  and  when, 
learned  as  he  was,  he  knew  that  it  was  his  duty,  as 
well  as  every  body  else's,  to  have  a  Christmas  tree, 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.    249 

and  to  make  a  present  to  every  one,  rich  or  poor,  whom 
he  either  loved  or  respected,  or  to  whom  he  was  under 
an  obligation  of  gratitude.  All  these  things,  learned 
man  as  he  was,  he  took  into  consideration.  "  If," 
thought  he  to  himself,  "  I  had  found  my  Ida  Schmidt 
at  Konigsberg,  I  should  have  laid  out  a  hundred 
florins,  at  the  least,  in  a  Christmas  present  for  her; 
but,  alas,  such  good  luck  was  not  for  me  !  The  hun- 
dred florins,  as  far  as  she  is  concerned,  still  remain 
in  my  purse.  I  must,  however,  make  those  good 
ladies,  Frau  and  Fraulein  Goetzenberger,  a  handsome 
present,  because  they  have  been  so  good  to  Lina. 
Poor,  dear,  little  Lina !  what  a  blessing  it  would  have 
been  to  her  had  I  but  found  my  Ida !  but  it  is  no 
use  lamenting.  The  day  after  to-morrow  is  Christmas 
eve ;  there  is,  therefore,  no  time  to  lose.  I  must  have 
a  Christmas  tree  in  my  dull  room  for  Lina ;  she  shall 
find  beneath  it  not  only  a  present  for  herself,  but  also 
for  her  kind  friends,  and  I  will  take  her  in  myself  to 
present  them.  I  have  too  long  neglected  to  call  on 
them  to  return  them  my  thanks.  If  they  ask  me  to 
stop  and  eat  a  little  salad  and  sausage  that  night,  and 
to  drink  good  wishes  to  them  in  a  glass  of  wine,  I 
will  do  so :  that  will  be  much  better  than  stopping 
here  by  myself." 

With  these  thoughts,  out  came  the  professor's  purso 


250    MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

a  purse,  for  all  the  world,  just  like  that  which  Ida 
was  finishing  at  that  very  moment  for  him.  He 
looked  at  the  purse  and  sighed.  Why  did  he  sigh? 
for  it  was  not  by  any  means  an  empty  purse.  He 
thought  to  himself,  as  he  looked  at  it,  "  This  purse  is 
many  years  old.  I  have  kept  it  carefully,  and  never 
used  it  until  I  set  out  on  that  luckless  journey  to 
Konigsberg,  for. I  thought,  if  it  should  be  my  Ida,  1 
would  prove  to  her  by  the  purse,  which  I  had  treas- 
ured so  long,  how  much  I  had  valued  her  gift ! "  and 
again  the  professor  sighed. 

But  sighing  would  not  buy  either  his  Christmas 
tree  or  the  presents  for  his  Lina's  friends.  He  be- 
thought himself,  and  soon  decided  that  he  would  buy 
some  splendid  fur  for  the  ladies.  This  was  always 
acceptable.  For  Fraulein  Ida  he  would  buy  ermine, 
and  for  the  old  lady  sable.  He  would  purchase  the 
best  that  money  could  buy,  and  to  the  children  he 
would  be  as  good  a  benefactor  as  if  he  were  a  fairy 
godfather,  if  there  ever  were  such  beings.  He  filled 
bota  ends  of  his  purse.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much 
money  he  put  into  it ;  and,  throwing  round  him  hia 
large  fur-collared  blue  cloak,  and  putting  on  his  over- 
shoes, he  set  off  into  the  town,  where  he  made  such 
astonishing  purchases  as  put  every  shopkeeper  into 
good  humor  for  a  week.  He  bought  also  an  enormous 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS   EVE.      25- 

Christmas  tree,  standing  in  its  green  garden,  with 
sugar  sweetmeats  innumerable;  and  all  were  received 
safely  into  the  house  by  ten  o'clock,  which,  in  that 
old-fashioned  town,  was  a  late  hour. 

On  the  morning  before  Christmas  day,  Frau  Goet- 
zenberger  sent  over  her  old  servant  Barbet  with  her 
compliments,  and  she  begged  that  the  Herr  Baron 
von  Hoffman  would  do  her  the  honor  to  bring  in  his 
little  Lina  at  five  o'clock  to  see  her  Christmas  tree, 
and  afterwards  to  eat  a  little  salad  and  sausage  and 
to  drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  her  and  Fraulein  Ida. 

The  professor  hesitated  to  reply.  "  He  was  intend- 
ing," he  said,  "  to  have  a  Christmas  tree  at  home 
for  his  little  Lina,  and  would  have  invited  the  ladies 
to  his  rooms,  but  that  he  could  not  think  of  bringing 
them  out  at  night."  He  therefore  returned  his  com- 
pliments by  Barbet,  and  begged  that  Frau  Goetzen- 
berger  would  oblige  him  by  deferring  her  Christmas 
tree  for  half  an  hour;  and  still  further,  would  she 
permit  her  little  grandniece  Sanchen  to  come  over 
and  see  what  the  good  Christ-child  might  bring,  after 
which  he  would  have  the  pleasure  of  accompanying 
the  two  children  to  Frau  Goetzenberger's,  and  would 
feel  much  honor  in  partaking  of  supper  with  her  and 
Fraulein  Ida. 

Again  Barbet   crossed   the   garden   to   assure   the 


252     MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Herr  Professor  that  nothing  could  be  more  satisfac- 
tory than  this  arrangement. 

Very  busy  was  the  good  professor  all  that  morning 
in  his  library,  the  door  of  which  was  locked,  so  that 
Lina,  had  she  been  so  disposed,  could  not  even  have 
peeped  in.  He  had  a  deal  to  do  about  his  Christmas 
tree,  and  often  and  often  did  he  wish  that  he  had 
but  some  skilful  female  fingers  to  aid  him.  How  he 
managed  it  all  by  himself  I  really  cannot  say ;  how- 
ever, at  half  past  four  o'clock,  little  Sanchen  was 
brought  over  in  a  new  pale-blue  silk  frock,  with 
black  satin  shoes  on,  and  little  black  silk  mits,  and 
with  her  lovely  flaxen  hair  plaited  like  a  crown  round 
her  head,  and  conducted  into  the  professor's  sitting 
room,  which  looked  very  gloomy  with  its  black  stove 
and  one  lamp,  with  a  blue  shade  over  it.  Here,  how- 
ever, she  was  rapturously  received  by  Lina,  likewise 
dressed  in  a  new  pink  silk  frock,  with  her  little  black 
satin  slippers  on,  and  little  black  silk  mits,  and  with 
her  dark  hair  plaited  just  like  Sanchen's. 

The  next  moment  a  little  bell  was  heard  to  ring, 
which  the  children  knew  to  be  Christkindchen's,  and 
the  door  between  the  library  and  sitting  room  opened, 
and  there  was  a  sight  for  them !  Such  a  blaze  of 
light !  such  a  Christmas  tree !  all  hung  over  with 
beautiful  things  —  dolls,  and  work  boxes,  and  cakes, 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER' s  CHRISTMAS  EVE.    253 

and  sugar  birds,  and  dogs,  and  milkmaids,  and  Tyro- 
lian  shepherds.  O,  it  was  beautiful !  And  there 
were  muffs  and  tippets,  of  ermine  and  sable !  But 
those  could  not  be  either  for  Lina  or  Sanchen. 

"  No,"  the  professor  said,  his  countenance  beaming 
with  joy  (Sanchen  was  no  longer  afraid  of  him)  as 
he  eyed  the  two  lovely  children  who  stood  so  beauti- 
fully hand  in  hand  before  him  — "  no,  those  fur  tippets 
and  muffs  the  Christkindchen  had  told  him  were  for 
Frau  Goetzenberger  and  Fraulein  Ida." 

Sanchen  clapped  her  hands  for  joy,  because  aunt 
Ida  had  wished  for  an  ermine  tippet,  and  the  great- 
aunt  Goetzenberger  loved  to  be  warm.  But  where 
was  the  good  Christkindchen  that  had  brought  these 
beautiful  things  ? 

The  professor  smiled,  and  said  that  Christkindchen 
was  in  such  a  hurry  to  be  off  to  Frau  Goetzenberg- 
er's,  that  she  would  not  stop  to  say  where  the  things 
came  from.  Lina  flung  her  arms  round  her  father's 
neck  and  kissed  him.  She  knew,  she  said,  where  the 
things  had  come  from,  for  Gretchen  had  told  her 
something.  She  loved  her  papa  dearly,  because  it 
was  he  who  had  bought  those  nice  warm  things  for 
Fraulein  Ida  and  Frau  Goetzenberger,  and  he  had 
bought  things  for  other  people  beside !  The  good 
papa !  he  had  not  forgotten  old  Martin,  who  lived  in 
22 


254 


the  court  below,  and  had  such  a  bad  leg ;  nor  Gret« 
chen,  nor  Barbet,  nor  the  poor  milkwoman  and  all 
her  children,  nor  the  shoemaker  who  was  ill. 

Certainly  the  good  professor  must  have  had  an 
excellent,  thoughtful  heart,  thus  to  remember  every 
body !  I  assure  you  he  had.  Little  Sanchen  kissed 
him,  and  thought  nothing  about  the  tobacco  smoke. 
But  now  it  was  half  past  five,  and  Barbet  was  come 
to  carry  Sanchen  across  the  snowy  garden ;  the  pro- 
fessor was  to  carry  Lina.  They  set  out,  accompanied 
by  Gretchen  with  a  lantern  in  one  hand  and  a  bas- 
ket in  the  other,  containing  the  gifts  which  had  been 
left  by  Christkindchen  under  the  professor's  tree  for 
Frau  Goetzenberger  and  her  household. 

While  the  professor  took  off  his  cloak  and  over- 
shoes, the  children  rushed  in,  having  easily  slipped 
out  of  the  large  shawls  in  which  they  were  wrapped, 
to  tell  of  the  wonderful  things  that  had  happened,  and 
of  the  wonderful  things  they  brought ;  but  there  was 
no  aunt  Ida  to  listen  to  them.  Frau  Goetzenberger 
sat,  all  dressed  in  her  best,  on  her  sofa,  with  a  green- 
shaded  lamp  before  her,  and  with  no  knitting  in  her 
hands.  But  where  was  aunt  Ida?  She  was  gone, 
the  old  lady  said,  to  receive  the  Christkindchen,  who 
was  every  moment  expected.  They  must  sit  down 
and  wait  patiently ;  good  little  children  always  did  so. 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.     255 

"  But,  aunt,"  said  SJinchen,  "  here  is  the  Herr  Pro- 
fessor." 

"  Ah,  indeed ! "  returned  the  old  lady,  in  quite 
another  voice,  for  from  being  blind  she  was  not 
aware  that  he  had  approached  the  table  before  her. 
"  Bring  him  here  to  me,  my  dear ;  I  am  truly  glad 
to  see  the  Herr  Professor." 

He  took  her  hand  kindly,  and  seated  himself  be- 
side her.  There  was  something  inexpressibly  attrac- 
tive to  him  in  all  that  he  saw  around  him ;  he  felt 
his  heart  drawn,  as  it  were,  to  the  old  blind  lady, 
as  if  she  had  been  his  mother,  and  he  spake  words 
of  unfeigned  kindness,  in  a  voice  which  went  equally 
to  her  heart.  She  apologized  that  Ida  was  not  pres- 
ent to  receive  him  ;  she  had,  said  she,  much  to  do 
on  an  occasion  of  that  kind,  as  the  Herr  Professor 
no  doubt  knew.  Of  course  he  knew  perfectly  well ; 
the  Christkindchen  must  always  be  well  received ;  he 
feared  that  he  himself  had  not  done  her  all  due 
honor,  for  she  was  in  so  great  hurry  to  depart  that 
the  little  ones  had  not  seen  even  the  shimmering  of 
her  wings. 

"  But  we  saw  what  she  left,"  said  Sanchen,  heaping 
the  beautiful  furs  on  the  table  before  the  old  lady ; 
"  feel  what  she  brought  for  you ; "  and  taking  up  her 
hand,  she  passed  it  over  the  fur ;  M  she  brought  you 


256    MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

a  sable  muff  and  tippet,  and  the  same  for  aunt  Ida, 
only  ermine ! " 

"  My  dear,"  remonstrated  aunt  Goetzenberger,  "  this 
is  too  much !  Christkindchen  does  not  bring  such 
presents  as  these  !  " 

"  But  my  papa  does  !  "  said  little  Lina ;  "  and  I  am 
so  glad,  and  I  love  him  so  for  it ! "  said  she,  spring- 
ing to  his  knee  and  kissing  him. 

"  This  is  quite  too  much,  Herr  Professor,"  said  the 
old  lady,  turning  to  him. 

He  made  no  reply,  for  at  that  very  moment  a 
little  silver  bell  rang,  and  a  sight  presented  itself 
which  dazzled  all  eyes.  The  professor's  tree,  with 
all  his  skill,  was  nothing  to  this.  How  indeed 
could  it  have  been  ?  This  was  all  arranged  by 
Fraulein  Ida  herself,  and  there  was  nobody  in  all 
Germany  who  could  make  these  things  so  beautiful 
as  she. 

But  where  was  Fraulein  Ida  all  this  time?  The 
children  hardly  thought  of  her,  so  wholly  was  their 
attention  occupied  by  the  wonderful  tree,  with  all  its 
wonderful  fruits,  and  by  the  lovely  Christkindchen 
herself,  who,  in  soft,  flowing  white  muslin,  which  fell 
in  folds  to  her  feet,  and  was  confined  at  the  waist  by 
a  silver  girdle,  stood  in  front  of  her  tree.  She  had 
silvery,  shining  wings  oh  her  shoulders,  and  a  little 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGEK'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.     257 

silver  crown  on  her  head.  Never  was  a  more  beau« 
tiful  figure  beheld.  She  looked  like  a  pure  angel 
just  descended  from  heaven.  The  children  stood  in 
the  open  doorway,  with  their  hands  extended  and 
their  eyes  fixed  in  delighted  wonder.  Dear  old  Frau 
Goetzenberger  saw  nothing,  or  certainly  she  would 
have  observed  the  extraordinary  effect  which  this 
vision  produced  on  the  Herr  Professor. 

Christkindchen  spoke  —  her  words  were  in  poetry  — 
beautiful,  softly-flowing  poetry,  full  of  tenderness  and 
love.  The  professor  had  silently  risen,  and  now  stood 
in  the  shadow  of  the  long  curtain  which  was  with- 
drawn from  the  door ;  for  he  did  not  dare  to  trust 
himself  within  the  light.  Very  powerful  was  the 
effect  of  that  low,  sweet  voice  upon  him ;  he  had 
known  one  like  it  in  former  years ;  and  did  not,  in 
truth,  his  long-lost  and  beloved  Ida  now  stand  before 
him  ?  O,  what  a  divine  gift  had  not  the  Christkind- 
chen brought  him  !  I  assure  you  that  the  professor, 
standing  there  in  the  shade  of  that  curtain,  shed  tears 
of  joy.  "  God,  perhaps,  deems  me  at  length  deserv- 
ing of  her ! "  thought  he,  remembering  the  words 
of  the  old  woman  at  Greifswald ;  and  he  silently 
thanked  God. 

"  But  where  is  the  Herr  Professor  ? "  at  length 
exclaimed  Christkindchen,  when  now,  having  concluded 
22* 


258    MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

her  poetical  address,  she  proceeded  to  appropriate 
her  gifts.  "  Let  him  come  forward,  for  here  I  find 
a  beautiful  pair  of  slippers  from  his  little  daughter, 
every  stitch  being  done  by  her  tiny  fingers.  I  have 
also  a  purse  knitted  with  beads  of  steel  upon  a 
dark-blue  ground,  to  represent  the  stars  of  heaven  on 
Christmas  eve :  this  is  from  a  lady  who  wishes  well 
to  the  excellent  Herr  Professor.  But  where  is  he  ? " 

The  Herr  Professor  stepped  forward.  He  said 
not  a  word,  but,  advancing  to  Christkindchen,  took 
her  hand  in  his,  and  whispered  softly,  "  My  Ida ! " 
All  at  once  Christkindchen's  other  hand  dropped  pow- 
erless to  her  side,  and  she  lay  motionless  in  the  pro- 
fessor's arms.  He  carried  her  to  the  unoccupied  sofa, 
speaking  words  of  the  utmost  tenderness ;  the  chil- 
dren began  to  cry;  poor  blind  Frau  Goetzenberger 
rose  up,  felt  her  way  round  her  table,  and,  advancing 
forward,  exclaimed,  "  What  has  happened !  O  Ida ! 
Ida !  speak,  my  child ;  art  thbu  ill  ?  Do,  somebody, 
tell  me  what  has  happened ! "  repeated  she  hi  impa- 
tient terror. 

"  Papa  has  kissed  her !  She  is  better  now,"  ex- 
claimed little  Lina,  still  sobbing. 

Ida  raised  herself  from  the  sofa,  and  leaned  her 
head,  weeping,  on  the  professor's  shoulder.  He  kissed 
her  hands  and  her  forehead  many  times,  and  then,  as 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.    259 

poor  old  Frau  Goetzenberger  still  impatiently  inquired 
what  had  happened,  he  turned  round,  and  said,  "  I 
have  found  here  her  whom  I  have  sought  for  years  — 
the  betrothed  of  my  youth  !  Pardon  me,  madam,  if 
I  have  forgotten  myself — pardon  me,  Ida,  if  I  have 
been  too  abrupt !  " 

"  O  Eberhard !  "  said  Ida,  rising,  "  how  is  this  ? 
But  take  off  all  this  finery  first,  which  is  not  real  — 
these  wings  and  this  crown :  let  me  not  find  any 
thing  unreal  at  this  moment.  And  you,  Eberhard, 
how  can  you  be  the  Herr  von  Hoffman  ? " 

He  explained  it  in  a  few  words.  "  And  you," 
said  he  —  "  you  are  called  Ida  Goetzenberger.  How 
is  that  ?  " 

"  Nobody  calls  me  so  but  you,"  she  replied,  smiling ; 
"I  am  Ida  Schmidt." 

"But  I  understood,"  said  he,  "  that  my  Ida  lived 
with  Madame  Bernhard." 

"  My  maiden  name  was  Bernhard,"  said  the  old 
lady,  who  now  understood  it  all,  for  she  knew  the 
history  of  Ida's  early  love ;  "  my  nephew  it  was  who 
married  Ida's  sister.  I  am  not  aunt  to  Ida,  but  only 
great-aunt  to  Sancheu  ;  but  they  are  both  my  children. 
Ida  is  dear  to  me  as  a  daughter ;  she  has  bee  a  a 
daughter  to  me ! "  and  the  blind  eyes  of  the  dear  old 
lady  shed  tears. 


260      MADAME  GOETZENBERGER  S  CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

The  professor  told  the  history  of  his  many  fruitless 
journeys  in  search  of  her  who  was  so  near  to  him 
after  all.  In  a  while  they  all  laughed  together. 

Together  they  walked  to  the  yet  brilliant  Christ- 
mas tree :  they  looked  at  the  various  presents ;  he 
took  up  the  new  purse,  and  compared  it  with  the  old 
one.  Ida  saw  how  her  present,  given  so  many  years 
ago,  had  been  treasured.  The  children  sat  one  on 
each  of  the  professor's  knees,  and  he  told  Sanchen 
that  he  should  like  to  be  her  uncle,  and  he  told  Lina 
that  he  hoped  aunt  Ida  would  be  her  mother.  The 
old  lady  sat  by  and  smiled,  for  she  saw  it  all,  although 
not  with  the  outward  sight ;  and  she  blessed  God 
that  he  had  given  so  much  happiness  to  those  who 
were  so  dear  to  her. 

The  professor  ate  his  sausage  and  salad  with  Frau 
Goetzenberger  that  night,  and  so  he  did  every  night 
until  early  in  May,  when,  having  made  his  own  hab- 
itation very  neat  and  cheerful,  arranged  all  his  books 
by  the  help  of  a  poor  student,  whom  he  paid  hand- 
somely, and  furnished,  in  beautiful  style,  several  new 
rooms,  Ida  became  his  wife ;  and  Frau  Goetzenberger, 
and  little  Sanchen,  and  old  Barbet  moved  across  the 
university  garden,  and  took  up  their  abode  with  their 
new  relative,  in  the  great  old  house  with  the  grin- 
ning face  over  the  gateway. 


MADAME  GOETZENBERGER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE.    26i 

That  same  summer  an  operation  was  performed  on 
the  eyes  of  Frau  Goetzenberger  by  a  famous  oculist, 
a  friend  of  the  professor,  and  she  fully  regained  her 
sight ;  and  in  the  autumn  they  all  spent  the  holidays 
on  little  Sanchen's  splendid  property  in  the  beautiful 
Saxon  Switzerland,  the  professor,  at  the  request  of 
Ida,  having  secured  it  to  his  little  daughter,  in  right 
of  her  deceased  mother,  retaining  only  for  himself  its 
income  during  her  minority. 

Such  is  the  history  of  the  wonderful  occurrences  on 
Frau  Goetzenberger's  last  Christmas  eve. 


FLOWER   ANGELS. 

RUCKERT. 

THE  angels,  dear  maiden,  that  round  us  be, 
Are  gentle  and  beautiful  like  to  thee ; 
Though  we  cannot  pee  them  with  mortal  sight, 
When  they  visit  earth  from  the  realms  of  light 

And  if  it  be  thou  wert  never  told 
Where  chiefly  their  home  the  angels  hold, 
When  heaven  they  leave  for  this  world  of  ours, 
I'll  tell  thee — their  homes  they  make  the  flowers 

Each  floweret  blooming  in  sunshine  or  shade 
Is  a  pavilion  by  angel  made, 
Where  he  rests  a  while,  till  again  he  flies 
To  his  mansion  bright  in  the  azure  skies. 

And  as  each  on  his  dwelling  thought  bestows, 
So  care  for  his,  too,  the  angel  shows ; 
Within  and  without  he  decks  it  fair, 
That  pleasant  may  be  his  lodging  there. 


FLOWER   ANGELS.  263 

He  fetches  him  store  of  sunbeams  bright, 
And  borders  his  roof  with  a  fringe  of  light ; 
He  fetches  him  colors  of  every  dye, 
And  painteth  his  walls  with  an  artist's  eye. 

Lest  he  hunger  on  earth,  he  bakes  him  bread 
Of  the  glittering  dust  o'er  the  floweret  spread, 
And  brews  him  his  nectar  of  pearly  dew, 
Keeping  house  in  all  as  one  used  thereto. 

And  joy  it  is  to  the  flower  to  see 

Its  tenant  employed  thus  busily ; 

And  Heaven  no  sooner  the  angel  recalls, 

Than,  for  sorrow,  his  house  in  ruin  falls. 

Thus,  dearest  maiden,  on  every  hand 
Around  thee  wouldst  have  an  angel  band ; 
So  bide  with  the  flowers,  the  fragrant  and  gay' 
And  angels  about  thee  will  rule  alway. 

Place  at  thy  lattice  a  flower,  and  ne'er 
Will  it  let  an  evil  thought  enter  there ; 
Bear  on  thy  bosom  a  posy,  and  lo, 
Wherever  thou  goest  will  angels  go. 

At  early  morn  water  a  lily  spray, 
And  pure  as  a  lily  thou'lt  be  all  day; 


264  FLOWER   ANGELS. 

At  night  on  thy  bed  place  a  rose  guard  to  keep. 
And  lulled  by  an  angel  on  roses  thou'lt  sleep. 

No  frightful  dreams  can  thy  slumber  break, 
For  charge  o'er  thee  doth  an  angel  take ; 
And  the  dreams  that  he  lets  come  to  thee 
No  other  than  pleasant  dreams  will  be. 

And  O,  if  thus  guarded  thou  shouldst  e'er 
Dream  of  the  love  which  to  thee  I  bear, 
Think  that  true  and  pure  it  needs  must  be, 
Else  kept  had  the  angel  that  dream  from  ihee* 


QUEEN    ESTHER. 

BY  E.  P. 

THE  decree  had  gone  forth.  Letters  had  been 
sent  by  posts  into  all  the  provinces,  to  kill  all  Jews, 
young  and  old,  in  one  day.  And  with  the  decree 
had  gone  forth  the  gold  and  the  silver  of  the  king 
to  carry  it  into  execution. 

Must  the  offended  favorite  of  the  rich  court  of 
Ahasuerus  seek  and  find  revenge,  not  only  in  the 
destruction  of  the  offender,  but  wreak  it  forth  on 
thousands  of  innocent  people  —  men,  women,  and 
children  ?  So  thought  Mordecai ;  and  he  rent  his 
clothes,  put  on  sackcloth  with  ashes,  and  walked  the 
streets  of  the  rich  city  of  Shusan,  crying  with  a  loud 
voice.  He  mourned  as  few  ever  mourn — bitter  tears 
over  the  fate  of  a  down-trodden  nation.  And  in  every 
province  the  Jews  wept.  They  saw  the  day  fast  ap- 
proaching when  they  should  be  destroyed,  and  all 
their  riches  given  as  a  spoil  to  their  murderers. 
Queen  Esther  was  informed  of  the  decree,  and  of  the 


266  QUEEN    ESTHER. 

affliction  of  her  uncle.  She  remembered  with,  woman's 
heart  all  the  goodness  Mordecai  had  bestowed  upon 
her  from  earliest  childhood.  His  wise  counsels  had 
guided  her,  and  she  forgot  not  how  he  had  led  her 
on,  step  by  step,  with  all  the  care  and  solicitude  of 
parental  love ;  and  she  was  also  fully  conscious  that 
she  owed  her  present  affluent  position  mainly  to  his 
watchfulness  in  her  behalf.  Learnirvg  the  rash  com- 
mand of  the  king,  she  sent  rich  raiment  to  Mordecai, 
with  the  request  for  him  to  put  away  his  sackcloth. 
But  he  would  not  be  comforted.  The  uplifted  sword 
was  not  removed ;  and  till  that  was  done,  nothing 
could  stay  the  torrent  of  his  grief. 

The  raiment  returned,  Esther  sent  Hatach,  one  of 
the  king's  chamberlains,  to  Mordecai  to  know  more 
of  the  matter.  By  him,  Mordecai  sent  a  copy  of  the 
written  decree  to  the  queen.  She  read  it,  and  at 
once  saw  her  duty,  and  resolved  to  perform  it. 

She  proclaimed  a  fast  among  the  Jews  of  Shusan, 
and  closed  her  reply  with  the  noble  declaration,  "  I 
will  go  in  unto  the  king,  which  is  not  according  to 
the  law,  and  if  I  perish,  I  perish." 

It  required  no  small  degree  of  courage  to  make 
guch  decision.  It  was  no  small  danger  she  was  to 
encounter.  It  might  end  in  her  banishment,  and  the 
fate  of  her  predecessor,  Vashti,  —  the  beautiful,  the 
strongly-virtuous  Vashti, — might  be  her  own  ;  or  death 


QUEEN   ESTHER.  267 

might  seal  her  devotion  for  her  beloved  people.  To 
enter  into  the  king's  presence  uncalled  would  be  an 
offence  of  great  magnitude  against  the  customs,  usages, 
and  laws  of  the  land.  Should  he  extend  his  golden 
sceptre  to  her,  all  would  be  well ;  but  should  he  be 
governed  by  some  ill  freak  of  the  moment,  some 
fancy  leading  him  to  consider  her  unsummoned  ap- 
pearance an  infringement  on  his  rights,  evil  might  be 
the  result. 

Whatever  the  end  might  be,  she  determined  to  go 
and  petition  for  her  people,  and  if  she  perished, 
perish. 

Had  the  king  known  that  she  herself  was  a  Jewess, 
that  the  merciless  command,  in  its  execution,  would 
bring  death  into  his  own  household,  he  might  not 
have  granted  Haman's  request.  Even  so  will  all 
wickedness  return  to  its  originator,  and  the  evil,  man 
"vould  throw  upon  another,  fall  upon  himself. 

On  the  third  day,  attired  in  her  royal  apparel, 
Queen  Esther  stood  in  the  inner  court,  over  against 
the  king's  house.  How  deeply  must  she  have  re- 
joiced as  she  felt  the  danger  of  her  position  past,  and 
touched  the  golden  sceptre,  extended  to  her  in  token 
of  the  king's  favor ! 

What  illuminations  of  hope  must  have  shone  upon 
her  path,  as  she  heard  the  voice  of  Ahasuerus,  say- 
ing to  her,  "What  wilt  thou,  Queen  Esther?  and 


268  QUEEN    ESTHER. 

what  is  thy  request?  It  shall  be  given  tLee  to  tna 
half  of  the  kingdom."  The  prayers  and  fasting  of 
the  Jews  had  prevailed  upon  the  Ruler  of  all  hearts, 
and  the  first  intimation  of  the  glorious  result  was 
now  seen. 

The  queen  desired  the  presence  of  the  king  and 
Haman  at  a  banquet  on  the  morrow,  at  which  re- 
quest Haman  was  greatly  rejoiced,  and  prided  himself 
on  the  honor,  which,  in  his  selfish  heart,  he  thought 
was  thus  bestowed  upon  him.  But — alas  *br  Haman 
and  his  iniquitous  designs !  —  at  this  feast  /ie  king  was 
rightly  informed  of  his  base  character :  with  wrath  he 
arose  from  the  banquet,  and  the  instrument  of  death 
which  Haman  had  made  for  Mordecai  became  that 
of  himself.  And  the  order  was  revoked  throughout 
all  the  land,  and  there  was  great  joy  and  rejoicing 
in  all  the  assemblies  of  the  Jews. 

Noble  woman !  Courageous  in  a  good  cause ;  thou 
triumphedst  over  the  emissary  of  evil,  and  madest 
thyself  a  name  glorious  among  men. 

Queen  Esther,  standing  in  all  thy  womanly  pride, 
with  the  merciless  decree  clasped  in  thy  hands,  re- 
solved to  do  or  die  in  the  pursuit  of  right,  thou  art 
a  pattern  and  an  example  to  the  people  of  every  age, 
and  thy  success  shall  encourage  all,  who,  with  thy 
daring  in  a  righteous  cause,  trust  God  and  press  on- 
ward. 


SONNETS. 


BY   MBS.  NEWTON   CROSLAND. 


a  AIM    high !    and    though    you    fail    your    mark   to 

reach, 

Some  quarry  not  to  be  despised  you'll  win ! "  — 
Advice  fair  sounding,  that  with  wordy  din 

Dulls  the  tired  ear,  till  wakening  mind  impeach 

Its  truth,  and  seek  for  argument  to  teach 
That  often  does  the  arrow  back  recoil 
We  shot  too  high ;  and  find  for  only  spoil 

The  soul  that  hurled  it  forth  with  vaunting  speech. 

A  wall  of  adamant  we  do  not  see 

May  rise  between  us  and  the  wish  on  high ! 

No  middle  hope  —  no  less  desire  may  be 
Between  us  and  the  star  for  which  we  try. 
They  are  earth-happiest,  who  small  arrows  fly 
At  small  near  toys,  but  never  dare  the  skyl 
23* 


270  SONNETS, 

II. 

[ In  answer  to  an  objection  that  was  made  to  the  fore* 
going  Sonnet.'] 

Dear  friend !     I  know  not  to  unweave  the  thought 

Whose  meshes  seem  too  tangled  in  thy  sight : 

I  am  not  wrong;  yet  thou  still  more  art  right 
In  sovJ  conviction,  spirit  wisdom  fraught ; 
Thus  much  I  grant.     My  words  but  idly  sought 

To    show    earth-happiest    they  —  the    small-brained 
crew  — 

With  bounded  wishes  and  aspirings  few, 
Who  call  it  noon  when  twilight  gleams  are  caught. 
Such  are  the  heritors  of  this  fair  earth, 

Who,  by  the  strength  of  numbers,  hold  it  still. 
I  do  not  speak  of  other  joys  more  worth 

Which  the  mind  martyrs  upon  earth  may  thrill, 
E'en  while  they  bleeding  lie,  the  theme  for  mirth 

And  football  for  th'  ignorant  scoffers'  will! 


A    FAIRY   TALE    OF    THE    OLDEN    TIME, 


BY  E.   M.  R. 


IN  the  days  of  chivalry,  when  life  to  the  wealthy 
was  a  series  of  exciting  enjoyments,  and  to  the  poor  a 
hopeless  slavery,  a  Fairy  and  a  beautiful  child  lived 
in  an  old  castle  together.  The  owner  of  this  large 
and  neglected  building  had  been  absent  on  the  cru- 
sade ever  since  the  time  which  gave  him  a  daughter 
and  deprived  him  of  a  wife ;  but  many  an  aged  pil- 
grim brought  occasional  tidings  of  the  glory  he  was 
winning  in  the  distant  land.  At  last  it  was  said  that 
he  was  wending  his  way  homeward,  and  bringing  with 
him  a  young  orphan  companion,  who  had  risen,  by 
dint  of  his  own  brave  deeds  alone,  from  the  rank  of 
a  simple  knight  to  be  the  chosen  leader  of  thousands. 
The  child  had  grown  to  girlhood  now,  and  very  bright 
upon  her  sleep  were  the  dreams  of  this  youthful 
hero,  who  was  to  love  her  and  be  the  all  of  her 
solitary  life.  I  said  she  had  dwelt  with  the  Fairy 


272  A   FAIBY   TALE    OF   THE    OLDEN    TIME. 

true,  but  of  her  presence  she  had  never  dreamed. 
Always  invisible,  the  being  had  yet  never  left  her. 
She  whispered  prayer  in  her  ear  as  she  knelt,  morn- 
ing and  evening,  in  the  dim  little  oratory ;  she  brought 
calm  and  happy  feelings  to  her  breast,  which  the 
commonest  things  awoke  to  joy  and  life ;  she  led  her 
to  seek  and  feel  for  the  needy,  the  sick,  and  the  suf- 
fering ;  she  nurtured  in  her  the  holiest  faith  in  God 
and  trust  in  man  :  yet  the  maiden  thought  she  breathed 
all  this  from  the  summer  evenings,  the  flowers,  the 
swift  labors  of  her  light  fingers,  and  the  thousand 
things  which  cherished  the  happiness  growing  up 
within  her  heart.  It  was  night,  and  Ada  slept ;  the 
moon's  rays,  gilding  each  turret  and  tower,  crept  in 
at  the  narrow  portal  which  gave  light  to  the  cham- 
ber, and  lingered  on  the  sunny  hair  and  rounded 
limbs  of  the  sleeping  girl.  The  Fairy  sat  by  her  side, 
weeping  for  the  first  time. 

"  Alas  !  "  said  she,  "  the  stranger  is  coming ;  thou 
wilt  love  him,  my  child !  and  they  say  that  earthly 
love  is  misery.  Among  us,  we  know  no  unrest  from 
it;  we  love,  indeed,  each  other  and  all  things  lovely j 
but  ages  pass  on,  and  love  changes  us  not.  Yet  they 
say  it  fevers  the  blood  of  mortals,  pales  the  cheek, 
makes  the  heart  beat,  and  the  voice  falter,  when  it 
comes ;  yet  it  is  eternal,  mighty,  and  entrancing. 


A   FAIRY   TALE    OF   THE    OLDEN   TIME.  273 

Alas !  I  cannot  understand  it !  Ada,  I  must  leave 
thee  to  other  guidance  than  my  own ;  I  love  thee 
more  than  self,  still  I  can  be  j\o  longer  thy  guide ! " 

The  Fairy  started ;  for  she  felt,  though  she  heard 
not,  that  other  spirits  had  suddenly  become  present. 
She  raised  her  eyes,  and  three  forms,  more  radiant 
than  any  fairy  can  be,  were  gazing  on  her  in  silent 
sadness. 

"  O  spirits  ! "  cried  the  weeper,  faintly,  "  who  can 
ye  be  ?  " 

"  The  Shades  of  Love,"  replied  voices  so  ethereally 
fine  that  a  spirit's  ear  could  hardly  discern  the  words. 

"  The  Shades ! "  repeated  the  Fairy,  in  surprise. 
"I  thought  Love  was  one/* 

"  I  am  Love,"  said  the  three  together ;  "  intrust  the 
untainted  heart  of  your  beloved  one  to  me ! " 

"  O  pure  beings  ! "  cried  the  Fairy,  bending  rever- 
ently before  them,  "  will  ye  indeed  guide  Ada  to  hap- 
piness, yet  ask  my  permission  ?  Tell  me  only  how  ye 
each  will  guide  her ;  and  grant  me,  though  not  human, 
to  choose  which  a  human  heart  would  prefer." 

"My  name  is  Mind,"  replied  the  first.  "When  I 
dwell  on  earth,  I  bind  together  two  ethereal  essences ; 
I  unite  the  most  spiritual  part  of  each ;  I  assimilate 
thought;  I  cause  the  communion  of  ideas.  No  love 
can  be  eternal  without  me,  and  with  me  associate 


274  A   FAIRY    TALE    OF    THE    OLDEN    TIME. 

the  loftiest  enjoyments.  Words  cannot  tell  the  rapture 
of  love  between  mind  and  mind.  Dreams  cannot 
picture  the  glory  of  that  union.  Very  rarely  do  I 
dwell  unstained  and  alone  in  a  human  breast ;  but 
when  I  do,  that  being  becomes  lost  in  the  entireness 
of  its  own  bliss.  Fairy,  the  lover  of  Ada  is  a  hero ; 
wilt  thou  accept  me  to  reign  in  her  heart  ?  " 
The  Fairy  paused,  and  then  spoke  sadly, — 
"  Alas,  bright  being !  Ada  is  a  girl  of  passionate 
and  earnest  feeling !  Thou  couldst  not  be  happiness 
to  her.  Thou  mightest,  indeed,  abstract  her  intellect 
in  time  from  all  things  but  itself ;  but  the  heart  within 
her  must  first  wither  or  die,  and  the  death  of  a  young 
heart  is  a  terrible  thing !  Pardon  me,  but  Ada  can- 
not be  thine." 

"  They  call  me  Virtue,"  said  the  second  spirit. 
"  When  I  fill  a  heart,  that  heart  can  live  alone.  It 
wakes  to  life  on  seeing  my  shadow  in  the  object  it 
first  loves ;  that  object  never  realizes  the  form  of 
which  it  bears  the  semblance,  and  then  it  turns  to 
me,  the  ideal,  for  its  sole  happiness.  I  am  associated 
with  every  thing  pure,  and  holy,  and  true.  Where 
human  spirits  have  drawn  mgnest  to  the  Eternal,  I 
have  been  there  to  hallow  them !  Where  the  weak 
have  suffered  long  without  complaint ;  where  the 
dying  have  to  the  last,  last  breath  held  one  name 


A   FAIRY   TALE    OF   THE    OLDEN    TIME.  273 

dearer  than  all ;  where  innocence  hath  stayed  guilt, 
and  darkest  injuries  been  forgiven,  —  there  ever  am 
I !  Fairy,  shall  I  dwell  with  Ada  ?  " 

Still  sadder  were  the  accents  of  the  guardian  Fairy. 

"  And  is  this  human  love  ?  "  said  she.  "  This  would 
be  no  happiness  to  my  child,  who  is  a  mortal  and  a 
woman,  and  who  will  yearn  for  a  closer  and  a  dearer 
thing  than  the  love  of  goodness  alone !  Erring  crea- 
tures cannot  love  perfection  as  their  daily  food.  Beau- 
tiful spirit !  thou  art  fitted  for  heaven,  not  earth  — 
for  an  angel,  but  not  for  Ada ! " 

Then  spoke  the  third. 

"  My  name  is  Beauty,"  said  she.  "  Men  unite  me 
to  imagination  and  worship  me.  Many  have  degraded 
me  to  the  meanest  things  I  own,  because  my  very 
essence  is  passion ;  but  they  who  know  my  true  na- 
ture unite  me  with  every  thing  divine  and  lovely  in 
the  world.  If  I  fill  Ada's  heart  when  she  loves,  the 
very  face  of  all  things  will  change  to  her.  The  flow- 
ing of  a  brook  will  be  music,  the  singing  of  the 
summer  birds  ecstasy ;  the  early  morning,  the  dewy 
evening,  will  fill  her  with  strange  tenderness,  for  a 
light  will  be  on  all  things  —  the  light  of  her  love ; 
and  she  will  learn  what  it  is  to  stay  her  very  heart's 
beatings  to  catch  the  lightest  step  of  the  adored  — 
to  feel  the  hot  blood  rushing  to  her  brow  when  only 


276  A   FAIRY   TALE    OF    THE    OLDEN   TIME. 

he  looks  on  her !  —  the  hand  tremble,  and  the  whole 
frame  thrill  with  exquisite  rapture,  and  meet  with 
delicious  tremor  the  first  look  of  love  from  a  man ! 
The  rapture  of  my  first  bliss  were  worth  ages  of 
misery ;  and,  pressed  to  the  bosom  of  the  beloved,  a 
human  spirit  feels  it  is  blessed  indeed.  Youth  13 
mine,  eternal  youth  and  pleasure.  Fairy,  Ada  must 
be  mine ! " 

"  Thou  seemest,"  said  the  Fairy,  musingly,  "  to  be 
the  most  suited  for  mortals.  In  thy  words  and  em- 
blems I  see  nothing  but  sensuality  of  the  least  mate- 
rial order.  And  to  all  there  seemeth,  too,  to  be  a 
time  when  one  clasp  of  the  hand  that  is  loved  is 
more  than  the  comprehension  of  the  grandest  thought 
Beauty,  I  will  give  up  my  child  to  thee  !  and  O,  if 
thou  canst  not  keep  her  happy,  keep  her  pure  till  1 
return !  Guard  her  as  thou  wouldst  the  bloom  of  the 
rose  leaf,  which  may  not  bear  even  a  breath ! " 

The  Fairy's  voice  faltered  as  she  turned  away  and 
imprinted  a  kiss  on  the  sleeper's  cheek.  Ada  moved 
uneasily,  but  did  not  awake  ;  and  in  the  last  glance 
that  she  gave  to  her  charge  was  united  the  form  of 
the  spirit  of  Beauty,  folding,  in  motionless  silence,  her 
radiant  wings  over  the  low  couch.  The  other  Shades 
had  fled  some  brief  time  since,  and,  burying  her  face 
in  her  slight  mantle,  the  beautiful  Fairy  faded  slowly 
away  in  the  moonlight. 


A   FAIRY   TALE   OF   THE    OLDEN   TIME.  277 

A  brief  time  passed,  and  the  baron  had  returned 
with  his  hero  guest  to  the  castle,  and  the  beneficent 
being  who  had  guarded  Ada's  childhood  had  been  up 
and  down  upon  the  earth,  cheering  the  sad,  soothing 
the  weary,  and  inspiring  the  fallen.  Much  had  she 
seen  of  human  suffering,  yet  many  a  great  lesson  had 
it  taught  her  of  the  high  destiny  of  mortals,  and  she 
winged  her  flight  back  to  Ada's  couch  sanguine  of 
her  happiness.  The  spirit  of  Beauty  still  floated 
above  it,  but  the  Fairy  thought  that  the  bright  form 
had  strangely  lost  its  first  ethereality.  Fevered  and 
restless,  the  sleeper  tossed  from  side  to  side.  With 
trembling  fear  she  drew  near  the  low  bed,  and  gazed 
fondly  on  the  unconscious  form.  Alas  !  there  was  no 
peace  on  that  face  now !  There  was  that  which  some 
deem  lovelier  than  even  beauty  —  passion ;  but  to  the 
pure  Fairy  the  expression  was  terrible. 

"  My  child  !  my  child  !  "  cried  she  in  agony ;  "  is 
this  thy  love  ?  Better  had  thine  heart  been  crushed 
within  thee,  than  that  thou  shouldst  have  given  thy- 
self up  to  it  alone !  Thou  hast  an  eternal  soul,  and 
thou  hast  loved  without  it !  Thou  art  feeding  flames 
which  will  consume  the  feelings  they  have  kindled ! 
Spirit,  is  this  thy  work  ?  " 

"  Such  is  the  love  of  mortals,"  answered  the  Shade. 
"  It  is  ever  thus ;  the  sensual  objects  are  but  emblems 
24 


278  A   FAIRY   TALE    OF   THE    OLDEN   TIME. 

of  the  spirit  union  of  another  world ;  yet  this  is  never 
seen  at  first,  and  every  impetuous  soul,  rushing  on 
the  threshold  of  life,  worships  the  symbol  for  the 
reality  —  the  image  for  the  god.  Fear  not,  Fairy; 
the  flame  dies,  but  the  essence  is  not  quenched :  from 
the  ashes  of  Passion  springs  the  Phoenix  of  Love. 
Ada  will  recover  this  burning  dream." 

"  Never  !  "  cried  the  Fairy,  "  if  she  yields  her  heart 
up  to 'thoughts  like  these.  Thou  art  a  fiend,  Beauty — 
a  betrayer !  Avaunt,  thou  most  accursed !  thou  hast 
ruined  my  child  !  " 

And  as  she  spoke,  weeping  bitterly,  she  averted  her 
face  from  the  Shade.  All  was  once  more  still,  and, 
her  grief  slowly  calming,  the  Fairy  hoped  *  she  was 
now  alone,  until,  raising  her  eyes,  she  saw  the  being, 
more  radiant  and  glorious  than  ever,  still  guarding 
the  sleeping  girl. 

"Fairy,"  said  the  Shade,  sadly,  "this  is  no  fault 
of  mine.  I  have  ever  come  to  the  human  heart  with 
thoughts  pure  as  the  bosom  of  the  lily  and  beautiful 
as  paradise,  but  the  nature  of  man  degrades  and  en- 
slaves me.  Thou  sawest  how  my  wings  were  soiled 
and  their  light  dimmed  by  the  sin  of  even  yon  guile- 
less girl,  and,  alas !  thousands  have  lived  to  curse  me 
and  call  me  demon  before  thee.  Now,  at  thy  bidding, 
I  will  leave  Ada,  and  forever.  She  will  awake,  but 


A   FAIRY   TALE    OP   THE    OLDEN   TIME.  279 

never  again  to  that  fine  sympathy  with  nature,  that 
exquisite  perception  of  all  high  and  holy  things,  I 
have  first  made  her  know.  She  will  awake  still 
good,  still  true ;  but  the  visions  of  youth  quenched 
suddenly,  as  these  will  have  been,  leave  a  fearful 
darkness  for  the  future  life." 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  "  cried  the  Fairy,  wringing  hel*  hands, 
with  a  burst  of  sudden  grief,  "  whether  thou  goest  or 
remainest  now,  Ada  must  be  wretched." 

"  Not  so,"  returned  the  Shade,  in  a  voice  whose 
sweetness,  from  its  melancholy,  was  like  the  wailing 
of  plaintive  music  —  "not  so,  if  thou  wilt  otherwise. 
Thou  hast  erred :  from  the  Shades  of  Love  thou  didst 
select  me;  and,  panting  as  we  each  do  for  sole  pos- 
session of  the  heart  we  occupy,  it  is  impossible  either 
separately  can  bring  happiness  to  it.  Each  has  striven 
for  ages,  but  in  vain.  It  is  the  union  of  the  three, 
the  perfect  union,  that  alone  makes  Love  complete." 

"  But  will  Mind  and  Virtue  return  ? "  asked  the 
Fairy,  doubtingly.  "  I  bid  them  myself  depart." 

"  They  will  ever  return,"  said  Beauty,  joyfully, 
"  even  to  the  heart  most  under  my  sway,  if  desired 
in  truth.  A  wish,  sometimes,  —  fervent  and  truthful 
it  must  be,  but  still  a  wish,  —  alone  often  brings 
them." 

At  that  moment,  a   hurried  prayer  sprang  to  the 


280  A   FAIKT   TALE    OF   THE    OLDEN   TIME. 

Fairy's  lips ;  but  ere  it  could  frame  itself  into  words, 
light  filled  the  little  chamber,  and  the  three  Shades 
of  Love  stood  there  once  more,  beautiful  and  shining, 

"Mighty  beings,"  said  the  Spirit,  "forgive  me! 
Attend  Ada  united  and  forever,  and  I  shall  then  have 
fulfilled  my  destiny." 

"  We  promise,"  returned  the  Shades. 

And  gazing  for  a  few  moments  in  earnest  fondness 
on  the  dreamer's  happy  face,  the  Fairy  bade  a  last 
farewell  to  her  well-loved  charge. 


JOSEPHINE, 

EMPRESS     OF    THE    FRENCH. 
BY  MAKT   E.  HEWITT. 

JOSEPHINE  ROSE  TASCHER  DE  LA  PAGERIE  was 
born  at  Martinique  on  the  24th  of  June,  1763.  At 
a  very  early  age  she  came  to  Paris,  where  she  mar- 
ried the  Viscount  Beauharnais,  a  man  of  talent  and 
superior  personal  endowments,  but  not  a  courtier,  as 
some  writers  have  asserted,  for  he  was  never  even 
presented  at  court.  Beauharnais  was  a  man  of  linv 
ited  fortune,  g,nd  his  wife's  dower  more  than  doubled 
his  income.  In  1787,  Madame  Beauharnais  returned 
to  Martinique  to  nurse  her  aged  mother,  whose  health 
was  in  a  declining  state ;  but  the  disturbances  which 
soon  after  took  place  in  that  colony  drove  her  back 
to  France.  During  her  absence,  the  revolution  had 
broken  out ;  and  on  her  return,  she  found  her  husband 
entirely  devoted  to  those  principles  upon  which  the 
regeneration  of  the  French  people  was  to  be  founded. 
24* 


282  JOSEPHINE. 

The  well-known  opinions  of  the  Viscount  Beauharnaig 
gave  his  wife  considerable  influence  with  the  rulers 
of  blood,  who  stretched  their  reeking  i  sceptre  over 
the  whole  nation ;  and  she  had  frequent  opportunities, 
which  she  never  lost,  of  saving  persons  doomed  by 
their  sanguinary  decrees.  Among  others,  Mademoi- 
selle de  Bethisy  was  condemned,  by  the  revolutionary 
tribunal,  to  be  beheaded ;  but  Madame  Beauharnais, 
by  her  irresistible  intercession,  succeeded  in  obtaining 
the  life  and  freedom  of  this  interesting  lady.  The 
revolution,  however,  devouring,  like  Saturn,  its  own 
children,  spared  none  of  even  its  warmest  supporters, 
the  moment  they  came  in  collision  with  the  governing 
party,  then  composed  of  ignorant  and  bloodthirsty 
enthusiasts.  The  slightest  hesitation  in  executing  any 
of  their  decrees,  however  absurd  or  impracticable,  was 
considered  a  crime  deserving  of  death.  Beauharnais 
had  been  appointed  general-in-chief  of  the  army  of 
the  North.  Having  failed  to  attend  to  some  foolish 
order  of  the  convention,  he  was  cited  to  appear  at  its 
bar  and  give  an  account  of  his  conduct.  No  one  ap- 
peared before  this  formidable  assembly,  but  to  take, 
immediately  after,  the  road  to  the  guillotine ;  and 
such  was  the  case  with  the  republican  general  Beau- 
harnais. He  was  tried  and  condemned,  and,  on  the 
23d  of  July,  1794,  he  was  publicly  beheaded  at  the 


JOSEPHINE.  283 

Place  de  la  Revolution.  Meantime,  his  wife  had 
been  thrown  into  prison,  where  she  remained  until 
Robespierre's  death,  expecting  each  day  to  be  led  out 
to  execution.  Having  at  length  recovered  her  free- 
dom, she  joined  her  children,  Eugene  and  Hortense, 
who  had  been  taken  care  of  during  their  mother's 
captivity  by  some  true  and  devoted  though  humble 
friends.  After  the  establishment  of  the  Directory, 
Madame  Tallien  became  all-powerful  with  the  direct- 
or Barras,  to  whom  she  introduced  Madame  Beau- 
harnais. 

Bonaparte  at  length  became  passionately  attached 
to  Madame  Beauharnais,  and  married  her  on  the  17th 
of  February,  1796.  She  accompanied  him  to  Italy, 
where  by  her  powers  of  pleasing  she  charmed  his 
toils,  and  by  her  affectionate  attentions  soothed  his 
disappointments  when  rendered  too  bitter  by  the  im- 
pediments which  the  jealousy  of  the  directory  threw 
in  the  way  of  his  victories. 

Bonaparte  loved  Josephine  with  great  tenderness ; 
and  this  attachment  can  be  expressed  in  no  words 
but  his  own.  In  his  letters,  published  by  Queen 
Hortense,  it  may  be  seen  how  ardently  his  soul  of 
fire  had  fixed  itself  to  hers,  and  mixed  up  her  life 
with  his  own.  These  letters  form  a  striking  record. 
A  woman  so  beloved,  and  by  such  a  man,  could  have 
been  no  ordinary  person. 


284:  JOSEPHINE. 

When  Napoleon  became  sovereign  of  France,  after 
having  proved  its  hero,  he  resolved  that  his  crown 
should  also  grace  the  brows  of  Josephine. 

With  his  own  hand  he  placed  the  small  crown 
upon  her  head,  just  above  the  diamond  band  which 
encircled  her  forehead.  It  was  evident  that  he  felt 
intense  happiness  in  thus  honoring  the  woman  he 
loved,  and  making  her  share  his  greatness. 

It  was  truly  marvellous  to  see  Josephine  at  the 
Tuileries,  on  grand  reception  days,  as  she  walked 
through  the  Gallerie  de  Diane  and  the  Salle  des 
Marechaux.  Where  did  this  surprising  woman  ac- 
quire her  royal  bearing?  She  never  appeared  at 
one  of  these  splendid  galas  of  the  empire  without 
exciting  a  sentiment  of  admiration,  and  of  affection 
too ;  for  her  smile  was  sweet  and  benevolent,  and 
her  words  mild  and  captivating,  at  the  same  time 
that  her  appearance  was  majestic  and  imposing. 

She  had  some  very  gratifying  moments  during  her 
greatness,  if  she  afterwards  encountered  sorrow.  The 
marriage  of  her  son  Eugene  to  the  Princess  of  Ba- 
varia, and  that  of  her  niece  to  the  Prince  of  Baden, 
were  events  of  which  she  might  well  be  proud.  Na- 
poleon seemed  to  study  how  he  could  please  her  — 
he  seemed  happy  but  in  her  happiness, 

He    generally    yielded    to    her   entreaties,   for    the 


JOSEPHINE.  285 

manner  in  which  she  made  a  request  was  irresistible. 
Her  voice  was  naturally  harmonious,  like  that  of  most 
Creoles,  and  there  was  a  peculiar  charm  in  every 
word  she  uttered.  I  once  witnessed,  at  Malmaison, 
an  instance  of  her  power  over  the  emperor.  A  sol- 
dier of  the  guard,  guilty  of  some  breach  of  discipline, 
had  been  condemned  to  a  very  severe  punishment. 
Marshal  Bessieres  was  anxious  to  obtain  the  man's 
pardon ;  but  as  Napoleon  had  already  given  his  de- 
cision, there  was  no  hope  unless  the  empress  under- 
took the  affair.  She  calmly  listened  to  the  marshal, 
and,  having  received  all  the  information  necessary, 
said,  with  her  musical  voice  and  bewitching  smile, — 

"  I  will  try  if  I  can  obtain  the  poor  man's  pardon." 

"When  the  emperor  returned  to  the  drawing  room, 
we  all  looked  to  see  the  expression  his  countenance 
would  assume  when  she  mentioned  the  matter  to 
him.  At  first  he  frowned,  but,  as  the  empress  went 
on,  his  brow  relaxed ;  he  then  smiled,  looked  at  her 
with  his  sparkling  eyes,  and  said,  kissing  her  fore- 
head, — 

"  Well,  let  it  be  so  for  this  once ;  but,  Josephine, 
mind  you  do  not  acquire  a  habit  of  making  such 
applications." 

He  then  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  again 
tenderly  kissed  her.  Now,  what  spell  had  she  employed 


286  JOSEPHINE. 

to  produce  such  an  effect  ?  Merely  a  few  words,  and 
a  look,  and  a  smile ;  but  each  was  irresistible. 

Then  came  days  of  anguish  and  regret.  She  had 
given  no  heir  to  Napoleon's  throne,  and  all  hope  of 
such  an  event  was  now  past.  This  wrung  her  heart ; 
for  it  was  a  check  to  Napoleon's  ambition  of  family 
greatness,  and  a  disappointment  to  the  French  nation. 
The  female  members  of  Napoleon's  family  disliked 
the  empress,  —  they  were  perhaps  jealous  of  her  in- 
fluence, —  and  the  present  opportunity  was  not  lost  to 
impress  upon  the  emperor  the  necessity  of  a  divorce. 
At  length  he  said  to  Josephine, — 

"  We  must  separate ;  I  must  have  an  heir  to  my 
empire." 

With  a  bleeding  heart,  she  meekly  consented  to 
the  sacrifice.  The  particulars  of  the  divorce  are  too 
well  known  to  be  repeated  here. 

After  this  act  of  self-immolation,  Josephine  with- 
drew to  Malmaison,  where  she  lived  in  elegant  retire- 
ment, unwilling  to  afflict  the  emperor  with  the  news 
of  her  grief,  and  wearing  a  smile  of  seeming  content 
which  but  ill  veiled  the  sorrows  of  her  heart.  Yet 
she  was  far  from  being  calm ;  and  in  the  privacy  of 
friendship,  the  workings  of  her  affectionate  nature 
would  sometimes  burst  forth.  But  she  was  resigned; 
and  what  more  could  be  required  from  a  broken 
heart? 


JOSEPHINE.  287 

On  the  birth  of  the  King  of  Rome,  when  Provi- 
dence at  length  granted  the  emperor  an  heir  to  his 
thrones,  Josephine  experienced  a  moment  of  satisfac- 
tion which  made  her  amends  for  many  days  of  bit- 
terness. All  her  thoughts  and  hopes  were  centred 
in  Napoleon  and  his  glory,  and  the  consummation  of 
his  wishes  was  to  her  a  source  of  pure  and  unutter- 
able satisfaction. 

"  My  sacrifice  will  at  least  have  been  useful  to 
him  and  to  France,"  she  said,  with  tearful  eyes.  But 
they  were  tears  of  joy.  Yet  this  joy  was  not  unal- 
loyed ;  and  the  feeling  which  accompanied  it  was  the 
more  bitter  because  it  could  not  be  shown.  It  was, 
however,  betrayed  by  these  simple  and  affecting  words 
uttered  in  the  most  thrilling  tone :  — 

"  Alas  !  why  am  I  not  his  mother  ?  " 

When  the  disasters  of  the  Russian  campaign  took 
place,  she  was  certainly  much  more  afflicted  than  the 
woman  who  filled  her  place  at  the  Tuileries.  When 
in  private  with  any  who  were  intimate  with  her,  she 
wept  bitterly. 

The  emperor's  abdication  and  exile  to  Elba  cut 
her  to  the  soul. 

"  Why  did  I  leave  him  ?  "  she  said,  on  hearing  that 
he  had  set  out  alone  for  Elba ;  "  why  did  I  consent 
to  this  separation  ?  Had  I  not  done  so,  I  should 


288  JOSEPHINE. 

now  be  by  his   side,   to   console   him   in  his   misfor 
tunes." 

Josephine  died  at  Malmaison,  on  the  29th  of  May, 
1814,  after  a  few  days'  illness.  Her  two  children 
were  with  her  during  her  last  moments. 

Her  body  was  buried  in  the  Church  of  Ruel. 
Every  person  of  any  note  then  at  Paris  attended 
her  funeral.  She  was-  universally  regretted  by  for- 
eigners as  well  as  by  Frenchmen ;  and  she  obtained, 
as  she  deserved,  a  tribute  to  her  memory,  not  only 
from  the  nation  whose  empress  she  had  once  beenj 
but  from  the  whole  of  Europe,  whose  proudest  sov- 
ereigns had  once  been  at  her  feet. 


mimxm 


- 
. 


